Blood Ties
by Kurt
Summary: Chapter 10 is up! And this story is COMPLETE. Susana Alvarez Lecter is back, and the FBI is on the case...with a very special Agent pursuing her. Will get gory in future chapters.
1. History

Lisa stepped from the elevator and brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes for the tenth time. She was nervous, and it showed. She stepped from the elevator and walked up the hall. A secretary at a desk guarded the passage beyond. She glanced up at Lisa as she came in. 

"I'm sorry," she said severely, "this is a private meeting." She meant it, too. At FBI headquarters, closed meetings were taken quite seriously. Lisa knew that on the secretary's desk was a green button. Pressing that button would summon several armed men. She smiled calmly and took out her ID. 

"My name is on the list," she said. She handed her ID to the secretary. The secretary scanned it emotionlessly and handed it back to her. 

"Go right in. They're expecting you. The meeting will be underway shortly." 

Lisa took her ID back and proceeded down the hall to a closed wooden door. She opened it and entered a conference room. A large oaken table dominated the room. Seated at it were several older men in suits. They turned to watch her as she came in. 

Lisa felt immediately self-conscious. She was the only woman in the room, and from the looks of it the only person under the age of forty. She could feel their eyes traveling up and down her body, sizing her up. Or perhaps thinking other thoughts. 

_Maybe I shouldn't have worn a skirt_, she thought. _No, this is an important meeting. Pants would have been bad. But damn I hate these pantyhose._

Don Quincy, the Section Chief for Behavioral Sciences, asked her her name. She gave it. He nodded and gestured to a seat. She sat down and pulled her chair close to the table. From her briefcase she took a notepad and pen. 

Nervously, Lisa crossed her legs and flicked at the hair behind her ear. Now that she was safely seated, a few eyes went to Chief Quincy at the head of the table. She could feel a few others still on her. She could almost feel the questions behind them. _Who is she? What is she doing here? Do those legs go all the way up? _ She fought the urge to try and pull down her skirt. Instead, she amused herself by flipping her pen in her hand. 

"Let's get started," Chief Quincy said. "Please open your folders and turn to page 1." There was a plain manila folder in front of Lisa, just like at every other place at the table. Lisa grabbed hers and opened it. A copy of a case file was inside. 

"As you know, two years ago there were a series of murders in Chicago. Three reporters for the _National Tattler_. Linked to these murders are the murders of four Chicago police officers, and one FBI agent. That agent was Tony Braxton, who was assigned to Behavioral Sciences." 

Chief Quincy pressed a button on the projector attached to his laptop and asked if someone could dim the lights. Lisa volunteered silently, scurrying from her seat to the light switch. When she returned, there was a single word projected on the wall. 

_LECCOPY._

"Of the three _Tattler_ reporters killed, two were killed in a copycat of Hannibal Lecter's murders years ago. Three, actually. The first murder was a duplicate of Dr. Lecter's sixth victim. The third murder was a dupe of the Pazzi murder in Florence." Chief Quincy cycled through pictures of the crime scenes as he spoke. Hard copies were included in each folder, providing loving detail to each atrocity. "The police officers murdered with him were arranged to duplicate Dr. Lecter's escape from custody in Memphis. Braxton was murdered, but simply dumped. He was not arranged to duplicate any known Lecter murder." 

The picture changed to that of a large, elderly black man. His eyes were unnaturally far apart. He looked into the camera with an intelligent mien and bright, living eyes that overshone his gray hair. 

"This is Barney, the orderly on duty when Dr. Lecter was in custody. He stated that he was kidnapped a week or so after the murders and held captive in Dr. Lecter's old cell." 

The picture changed again, to a young woman with brown hair, high cheekbones, and maroon eyes. The background appeared to be a hospital bed. The young woman stared into the camera confusedly, as if not understanding where she was or who was taking her picture. 

"The only suspect in these murders and the alleged kidnapping is this: Susana Alvarez. Date of birth March 5, 2004." Lisa tensed involuntarily. The birthdate was the same as her own. Chief Quincy continued. "Susana Alvarez entered the U.S. on July 12, 2025. The first murder took place three days later. There was an attempt to arrest her, even though the evidence was weak." 

Chief Quincy grunted and cleared his throat. What he had to say next was not popular to hear around the halls of the FBI or Behavioral Sciences, for that matter. 

"Behavioral Sciences correctly predicted that Susana Alvarez would visit her grandfather's grave on the anniversary of his death. They attempted to arrest her. She fled. Owing to poor planning on the part of my predecessor, former Section Chief Ardelia Mapp, the officers involved were not able to catch her. She was hit by a truck and severely injured in apprehension." 

Lisa had heard these stories before. The botched arrest and subsequent escape of Susana Alvarez Lecter was considered one of the worst moments of the FBI's history. 

"She was arrested and charged with the Barney kidnapping," Chief Quincy continued. "Since she was so severely injured, she was allowed to remain at the hospital with a guard on her door. Chief Mapp attempted to interrogate her and see if she would cop a deal on the LECCOPY murders. At that time…Susana Alvarez's mother showed up, overpowered Chief Mapp, and escaped with her daughter." 

He sighed and pressed the button again. A standard DNA scan screen replaced the picture of the young girl. 

"A DNA match was performed on a hair brought in by Agent Mapp," he said. "It is not clear where she got it and the chain of custody was not followed appropriately. However, it did confirm Susana Alvarez's parentage." 

The picture changed to the mug shot of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a picture known far and wide across the FBI. 

"Susana Alvarez is the daughter of escaped serial killer and cannibal Dr. Hannibal Lecter," Chief Quincy intoned. The picture changed to a young FBI agent's first ID picture. She had auburn hair. Lisa's stomach twisted into knots upon seeing it. 

"And…former Special Agent St-," Chief Quincy continued. His eyes touched Lisa's for a moment. He took a deep breath and made himself finish. "Former Special Agent Clarice Starling." 

That was the hard part. Now the surprise came. 

"Two weeks ago, there was a murder in New York City. The victim's sweetbreads were removed by an expert hand. Hardly any forensic evidence to be found, just like the LECCOPY murders. However, a security camera in the apartment building recorded this." 

The picture was blurry and fuzzy in the way all security cameras were. A hallway appeared in various shades of gray. A young woman walked past it, turned and looked at it, and waved. Although only in black in white, the picture was undoubtedly that of Susana Alvarez Lecter. 

"She's back, gentlemen. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. And this time we're going to get her." He asked Lisa quietly to turn on the lights. She did, causing some of the other men to stir. Whether they were looking her over or annoyed about the sudden brightness was not clear. 

"I'd like everyone to go around the room and introduce themselves quickly. Most of you know each other, but not everyone does." 

As each man introduced himself, Lisa dutifully scribbled his name down on her pad, added his title, and then promptly forgot both so that she could go to the next one. When her turn came, she licked her lips, took a deep breath and sighed. 

"I have just graduated from the Academy," she said slowly. "My name is…," 

_Oh fuck it, just say it, watch them squirm_, she thought. 

"I'm Special Agent Starling," she said. "Special Agent Lisa Starling." She took a moment to enjoy the looks of surprise on the faces of the other meeting attendees. 

"I know what you're wondering and the answer is yes. We are related, although we never knew each other. But I am indeed Clarice Starling's first cousin, and Susana Alvarez Lecter's first cousin once removed." 


	2. Enemies Discovered

__

Author's notes: 

First off, disclaimers, bla bla bla, I don't own Hannibal Lecter or Clarice Starling or Ardelia Mapp or the FBI or the FF.Net server or any character in other fanfic or the number 2. I do own Susana Alvarez Lecter, Lisa Starling, and anyone I didn't borrow. Well, Lisa is kind of a tribute to someone special. Her name, anyway.

Next up. Some personal things I wanted to say but am too lazy to email people separately. 

To Chameleon302: As always, your unflagging support helps keep things going. Thank you. That's all I can say, really. Well, wait. I can also say that if I do end up in a casserole in one of your fics that Susana has multiple slots on her victims dance card.

To Screaming Lamb: I also appreciate you as a constant reader of my fics. And keep up 'Following Orders'. You're better than you seem to think. Is Susana going to be 'nicer' in this one? As Bachman Turner Overdrive said: B-b-baby, you just ain't seen nothing yet. 

To Lauralye who does not sign in: First off, you win the Scooby Doo award for solving the mystery in 'Whoever Fights Monsters' long before it was revealed. Secondly, Clarice's family will indeed continue to be explored here. 

To Samantha Bridges: Wow, an author who seems to share my predilection for length (though I'm getting shorter) and who is, in her own way, as demented as I am. That's a compliment, now. Of all the fic authors here, your writing style is closest to Thomas Harris's. 

To everyone who asked for more gore: Be careful what you ask for. You're gonna get it. Starting with this chapter. As in weak stomachs may want to check out now. 

As always, thank you for reading and reviewing. I try to return the favor as much as I can We now return you to your regularly scheduled story already in progress.. 

The men seemed surprised to hear her announcement. A moment of silence reigned in the room. Finally, an older man in a gray suit broke the silence. His thin, pinched features twisted into an expression of disbelief. 

"Pardon me, Agent…Starling, but aren't you a bit young to be Clarice Starling's cousin?" 

Lisa consulted her chart. This was Peter DeGraff, Deputy Chief of Behavioral Science under Chief Quincy. 

"No, sir," she explained. 

"Agent Starling isn't lying, Peter," Chief Quincy interjected. The two men stared at each other. An unspoken rivalry was palpable between them. 

"I'm not saying she's lying," DeGraff said. "I'm just asking--," 

"Well, you don't need to," Chief Quincy said angrily. 

"Sirs, please. It's all right," Lisa said smoothly. "It's a fair question and I don't mind answering it." 

Her diplomatic move quelled the tension between the two. Once peace reigned around the table, Lisa continued. 

"Clarice's father, John Starling, is my father's half-brother. His—John's, I mean—mother died when he was fourteen years old. He was sixteen years older than my father. And my father was married once before he married my mother. He was fifty or so when I was born." 

The men seemed satisfied with the explanation. Lisa reached down unobtrusively under the desk to scratch her nyloned calf. 

_I thought if I was an FBI agent I wouldn't have to wear these damn things to work,_ she thought. 

"Agent Starling, I'm sure you're well trained," DeGraff said calmly, "but I do have to ask what you're doing here. The FBI is not a medieval family. Your relation to…former Agent Starling…doesn't qualify you for anything." 

"I have a master's degree in psychology," Lisa said in equally calm tones. "I know I am not qualified to join Behavioral Sciences immediately, sir. No one is. I was asked to be here, sir." 

"That's right, and I asked her to be here," Chief Quincy said gruffly. "Stand down, Peter." 

Peter DeGraff closed his mouth, but his disdain was obvious. 

"Susana Alvarez has never known any of her family outside of her mother and father. Clarice's father and Agent Starling's were never close. But we believe that if we publicize Agent Starling's involvement in the case, we may be able to draw Susana's attention." 

DeGraff rolled his eyes. "It's a heck of a gamble. And we can try it, but we should have real agents working this case, not just Cousin Lisa." 

Chief Quincy's eyes flared with anger. He pointed at Deputy Chief DeGraff. 

"We will have plenty of agents assigned to SUSDOOVER," he said sharply. "And you expect to be referred to as Deputy Chief DeGraff, do you not?" 

"Yes," DeGraff said reticently. 

"Then please refer to her as 'Agent Starling', not 'Cousin Lisa'." 

An unpleasant silence ruled the room. The man seated next to Deputy Chief DeGraff cleared his throat. 

"Chief Quincy wouldn't have asked Agent Starling to be here if he didn't think she would add value to the investigation somehow," he said. He smiled. Behind his glasses, his eyes were bright blue. Lisa consulted her list and discovered this to be Ralph Lima, a profiler in Behavioral Sciences. She had heard his name before. Behind the blue eyes and grandfatherly mien lurked a mind that was both razor sharp and well experienced in predicting an UNSUB's next move.

"And Agent Starling's last name does not constitute a scarlet letter," concluded Chief Quincy. Lisa smiled briefly, grateful that he had stood up for her. Her last name had indeed been a stumbling block for her in her brief career. Memories at the FBI were long, and Clarice's liberation of Hannibal Lecter so many years ago was not viewed kindly. "As we were, ladies and gentlemen." 

The meeting continued. The plan was to publicize Agent Starling as part of the investigation. Chief Quincy had a few sources in the _National Tattler_. Deputy Chief DeGraff was silent and sullen through most of the meeting, only stopping to ask if Susana Alvarez actually read the _Tattler._ That was a point Lisa had to give him. The FBI had managed to obtain Susana's hotel and dining receipts from her first visit to the United States. Room service, expensive wine, and a brief shopping expedition to Ballston Common Mall. Two thousand dollars in clothing. Seven hundred fifty dollars in lingerie at Victoria's Secret. That was more money than Lisa Starling had ever spent on lingerie in her entire life. Damnably, the FBI still had not been able to come up with a single scrap of paper proving that Susana Alvarez Lecter had ever been in Chicago. 

But someone with that sort of tastes and money probably did not read the _Tattler_. All they could do was try and wheedle a big headline and front-page article and hope it got her attention. Then again, the _New York Times _was not willing to print an article written exclusively for the FBI. 

When the meeting broke up, Lisa Starling scurried back to the tiny cubicle she had been temporarily given in the depth of Behavioral Science's dungeons. Quincy, DeGraff, and Lima stayed behind for a moment. 

"I still think this is stupid," Peter DeGraff grumbled. "You don't even know if Lecter's going to take the bait."

"Huh? Oh, you mean Alvarez." 

"Whatever. If Lecter's her father then her last name ought to be Lecter. She acts enough like him." 

"It's a gamble," Chief Quincy allowed, "but it's worthwhile. If she sees 'Agent Starling on the case' on a headline she might grab at it." 

"And do what?" DeGraff said. "Only thing she'll do is make a beeline for Cousin Li—Agent Starling and kill her. You really want to throw a kid fresh out of the Academy up against a killer like Susana Lecter?"

Chief Quincy, who had been an agent himself when a kid fresh out of the Academy interviewed a killer named Lecter, shrugged. 

"We'll make sure she has adequate backup," he said. 

"I think it's a bad idea. You're going to have a dead kid on your conscience is what I think," DeGraff grumbled. "Susana Lecter already whacked an FBI agent who had two commendations for bravery on the street. And didn't we have an FBI agent disappear ten or so years ago out of Argentina? Isn't she from Argentina? Your beloved kid is going to end up on a table somewhere being Susana Lecter's appetizer." 

"Peter, look. I am chief here. This is how we're doing it." 

"Don't be so hard on her, DeGraff," said Agent Lima. "She's a smart cookie." 

Peter DeGraff scowled. He could not think about his immediate, visceral reaction to Lisa Starling. He just knew that he did not like the idea at all. 

"Women don't belong in law enforcement," he said. "They don't have the guts for it." 

…

Ray Herman was quite contented with life. 

It had been a few years since he moved from Minneapolis to New York City. Although part of him hated the city and always would, he could appreciate what it meant for him – the big time, the big bucks. He had his radio show, and instead of reaching a few thousand paltry listeners, he had thirty thousand watts blasting him well into Connecticut and New Jersey. On some days, he had heard, the big transmitter atop the Empire State Building could send his voice all the way to Boston, Massachusetts. 

Ray Herman was a radio talk-show host, and his show consisted mostly of his diatribes against liberals, the poor, Democrats, other races, and whoever dared call his show to defend them. Radio remained popular in 2025, for the simple reason that cars still came with radios. Millions of listeners tuned in to hear him defend the sacred rights of the white American male. 

Had that been it, Ray Herman would have been no more than a conservative talk-show host, nor would he have ever left Minneapolis with his show. But Ray Herman was a rare find: a highly intelligent man who espoused the tenets of the radical right. Not only was he abusive to his callers, but he picked them apart with his razor-sharp mind. Many of the 'pinko liberals' who attempted to debate him made the mistake of assuming that he was a country bumpkin with no real intellect. They were wrong. Ray Herman was bright, persuasive, and fast on his mental feet. 

His greatest moment on the air had been a debate with a professor of African-American studies from Harvard University. In a heated, vicious debate, he had ripped into her defense of affirmative action, claiming that discriminating in favor of minorities was no more morally superior than discriminating against them. A sizable chunk of New York City had agreed in a poll that he had won the debate. 

A good chunk of the white, male population of New York loved his show. They thrilled to hear him publicly denounce policies and ideas that they had quietly resented all their lives. They cheered him as he took down high and mighty politicians and shredded liberals on his show. 

They did not know that he often had women in the studio with him, and most of them would not have downgraded their opinion of him if they had. The women Ray Herman preferred in the studio were professionals, and it was part of their professional code to not disclose their presence. After all, Ray Herman was a married man with kids, on the air to stand up for the regular working Joe who wanted to score the good job and send his kids to college. 

He sat down in the DJ booth and sprawled out in his chair. He'd worked on his speech last night, and it was good, he thought. It was five-thirty, and most of New York's workers were headed home. He thought about how many car radios his voice was coming from as he spoke. 

"Tonight," he began, "I want to talk about foreigners. Now America is supposed to be the land of opportunity, but that doesn't mean we have to let in every last guy from Outer Franistan. No! America's first responsibility is to Americans, to the people already here." 

As his voice echoed through the speakers, the security guard outside sat at his own desk. He was bored. His boredom was alleviated by the sight of a young woman entering the studio. She wore a woven sleeveless top, a leather miniskirt, black stockings, elbow length gloves, and high heels. Over her arm was slung a large purse. The security guard shifted his bulk in the chair and grinned. 

"Afternoon, darling," he said. "Suppose you're here to…umm…see Mr. Herman." 

"You know it," Susana Alvarez Lecter said, and gave him a sexy grin. Internally, she was annoyed. She was grateful that her father could not see her dressed this way. Her outfit would have given him a much more painful and quick heart attack. Whoever thought she was a monster ought to meet the man – and it had to be a man – who invented the five-inch stiletto-heeled pump, she thought. 

"How about you warm up with me?" he leered. 

Susana considered. She had scoped out the studio for a few days before, dressed as a cleaning woman. She knew that Herman had a fair amount of yapping about minorities and foreigners to do before he switched to the news feed for the fifteen minutes or so he usually used for his interludes with women. Besides, she had to get this fat guy out of the way anyway. 

"Sure," she said. "I'll warm up with you. Why not?" 

The security guard's eyes lit up. He maneuvered his large body out of the chair and around the desk. 

"Holy shit," he grinned. He seemed rather like a man who had just been told he had won the lottery. Susana wasn't surprised. "One of you finally agreed." 

"Open up your pants," Susana suggested. "Let's do it right on the desk." 

Eagerly, he complied, his eyes drinking in her body all the while. Susana tried not to stare at him once he did. _God wasn't very kind to you, was he,_ she thought. She slipped off her shoes, and put down her bag. She squatted and smiled up at him. The security guard looked down at her, his eyes gleaming in piggy excitement. Susana reached back and plucked the Harpy from where it was clipped to the waistband of her skirt. 

She struck quickly, and where it would hurt the most. The Harpy was wickedly sharp, and Susana knew exactly what she meant to cut. The security guard's face changed from one of sexual tension to extreme pain. Susana neatly caught her severed prize in her left hand, stood, and pivoted. The Harpy described a tight, deadly arc which ended in the security guard's stomach. 

Usually, it was easy to kill someone like this. The security guard was heavier than most, and there was a lot of fat to muscle past in order to reach the sensitive viscera. But the Harpy was sharp and Susana was strong. The guard died with a stupid look of fear and pain on his face. 

Susana sat him back in his chair and arranged him so that it seemed he was sleeping at his desk. The blood would eventually give it away, but Susana did not plan on being here much longer anyway. She washed off her arm in the bathroom and proceeded into the DJ booth for her date with the illustrious Ray Herman.

Susana had first heard him in the back of her limo while riding from the airport to her hotel. She had been fiddling with the radio, looking for something interesting, and come into the middle of one of his diatribes about foreigners. She had listened to it for a while, her face growing darker and darker as he attacked a few callers who dared opine that immigration to the U.S. should not be curtailed.. He was very, very rude, she thought. And Susana's father had taught her well what the penalties for rudeness were.

In the back of the limo, she had envisioned a well-fed older man in a jacket and tie. A well-fed man, a man who might be tending to fat but wouldn't look obese the way the security guard had. A man who looked big, rather than fat. A man who had privilege and who meant to guard it. It was a common mistake. There are plenty of three-hundred-pound disk jockeys with whip-thin voices. 

Ray Herman was a small man with a thin face. He had a valiantly struggling mustache. His hair was black, and curly. His skin was swarthy. Her first thought was that he was _indio_. She remembered this was the U.S. and supposed he could be part Italian or something. But he could have walked down any street in Buenos Aires completely unnoticed. Susana observed with some surprise that the champion of conservatism had long hair in back. 

He reminded her of nothing so much as a rat or a mouse. The mustache wiggled at her like mouse whiskers. He seemed to be afraid of her, almost. _As he should be,_ Susana thought. No, wait. Not yet. 

"You're not the regular girl," he said calmly. 

"No," Susana agreed. "She wasn't feeling well. She asked me to stand in for her." Technically, Susana's first statement was not a lie. The regular prostitute had indeed not been feeling well. She was not feeling well because Susana had waylaid her at her apartment building and slashed open her stomach. Susana had discovered a bizarre looking growth on one of the woman's ovaries. It could have been ovarian cancer, but it hardly mattered now.

"We've got five minutes until the commercials are over," he said timidly. "Can we get started?" 

Susana started. Five minutes? _No wonder this guy's so nasty on the radio. Talk about inferiority complexes. _

"Let's try something different," she coaxed. "Drop your pants. I'll do it while you talk." 

"We can't," he said. "I have to talk. We're live." 

"I won't get in the way of that," she said saucily. "I'll just make it feel good until you're done. Then we'll get into the real fun." She giggled. "It'll be fun anyways, knowing that you're talking to all those people while I'm…well…you know." 

"OK," he said. His mustache wiggled again. Susana fought the urge to offer him a piece of cheese. _ The great Ray Herman, terrorizer of liberals everywhere, turns into a meek mouse in front of a woman in a miniskirt, _she thought. That actually wasn't so uncommon, though. But what she had planned for him was. 

He opened his pants and sat down behind the mike. Susana took him in her hand and closed her mind to what she was doing. She was grateful for the elbow-length gloves, as it meant she could handle but avoid touching. She moved her hand back and forth gently. Ray Herman moaned in pleasure. 

_Enjoy it while you can, buddy_, she thought. 

"OK, we're back! Let's take some calls!" Herman cried out enthusiastically. The powerful voice booming from that tiny frame made Susana recoil. Herman gasped as he went with her. 

"Sorry," she murmured. 

He waved impatiently at her. She made a face. It didn't matter. He wouldn't be around too much longer. 

Herman punched a button on his phone. "Caller, you're on the air," he said. 

"Yes, Mr. Herman. My name is Julia, and I can't believe you had the nerve to talk about foreigners like that," a female voice issued from the overhead speakers. 

"You can't believe I had the nerve to talk about foreigners like that?" he asked. "I can't believe that NOBODY ELSE has been talking like that about foreigners! I mean, come on!" 

"America was built by foreigners," the woman protested. 

"Yes, back THEN. We were a production economy then. We needed a lot of slack joes for crappy factory jobs. We're not a production economy anymore, sweetheart. How many factories are there compared to what there were?" 

"That shouldn't change-," the woman tried to get in edgewise.

"Oh yes it should. It should change. We're not a production economy anymore. We're a goods-and-services economy. We don't NEED any more people here. We have the right to say no, you know. Do you have the obligation to have sex with all comers?" 

"That's got nothing to do with it," the caller protested. 

"Yes it does. It's the same. You can say no. You can tell some guy, 'No, I won't have sex with you.'." He winked at Susana, grinning ecstatically. "It's the same with America. We can say, 'No. We don't want you here. Sorry, but that's how it is.'" 

_Say something about foreigners. Something nasty. I'm begging you, buddy,_ Susana thought. 

"That's how it is. It's all nice and crunchy-munchy to care about people in other countries. But that doesn't mean we pollute our own country by letting everyone in. We let them in when WE need them." 

"You--," the caller tried, but Herman was on a roll. 

"And one more thing. What's with demanding everything in their own languages? You don't have to speak English to get a driver's license anymore. Think about that. The guy in the next car is not legally obligated to be able to read signs like RIGHT LANE MUST TURN RIGHT. Is that right? Hell, no, I say. If we let the smelly little buggers in, they have to play by OUR rules. Otherwise they can stay in Guadalahoohoo." 

Susana decided that was good enough. Her left hand continued in its gentle, pleasing rhythm. Suddenly, it pulled out sharply. Ray Herman gasped. 

Susana's right hand flashed out. It described the same arc it had before. The pleasure at Ray Herman's groin suddenly turned into a cold, somehow silvery pain. He screamed and looked down. The flow of blood was immediate and heavy. 

Susana stood up and spun him around in the chair. She gave him another moment to appreciate what she had done to him. Then she brought the Harpy close in across his throat. He panicked and got a hand up to block the blade. 

There went her no-hitter. Damn. 

He screamed again. Susana sank the blade into his gut and ripped up. It was a fatal wound, she knew, but not an instantly fatal one. Good. A few more screams would get the attention of her listeners. 

"She's killing me! She's killing me!" Ray Herman screamed. His caller was forgotten. His radio show was forgotten. The Big Apple was forgotten. Only the psychotic girl with the blade was real to him now. 

Seven and a half million listeners heard Ray Herman die. There were screams and indescribably wet noises of metal plunging into flesh. The caller began screaming as the sounds grew wetter and Herman's voice dropped off to nothing. 

For several seconds, there was nothing but dead silence. Then the smoky voice of a young woman came on the air. 

"Mr. Herman was very rude," she said. "Please, we implore you not to be rude. It might save your life someday. This concludes our public service announcement." 

Susana clicked off the mike, grabbed her things, and ran from the booth. No one else was in her way; the whole murder had taken only three minutes. She ran from the studio and down the hall. 

She banged open the door to the stairs and ran down two flights. She opened that door and hit the hallway. A short distance down was a ladies' room. Susana ran inside the ladies' room and locked herself in a stall. 

She removed a Louis Vuitton briefcase from the big hooker purse she had brought with her. Hurriedly, she removed the abbreviated top and miniskirt. She wiped the blood off her with the top, stuffed it in a plastic bag, and put it in the briefcase. From the briefcase, she removed a woman's suit jacket, a skirt, a white blouse, and more sensible pumps than the ankle-breakers that had been a part of the hooker outfit. 

She dressed hurriedly and swapped shoes. The Harpy went on its preferred position on the back of her skirt waistband. The jacket covered it nicely. From the inside jacket pocket she took a pair of glasses and slipped them on. 

At the bathroom mirror, she hurriedly scrubbed the eye shadow she had liberally caked onto her lids beforehand. She replaced it as quickly as she could with makeup more suitable to a young professional. After all, a girl had to look good. 

Ten minutes after entering the bathroom, she was ready. The woman who had entered was instantly identifiable as a cheap and tawdry hooker. The woman who left looked like an intellectual young attorney. Susana strode purposefully to the elevator and punched the button. She stared into the warped reflection of the metal wall, trying to see if there was any blood on her. She saw none. 

In the lobby, Susana was met by several police officers running towards the elevator. She shifted her briefcase to her left hand and had her right free for the Harpy. She didn't think she could take down six with a knife, but she would try if she had to. 

One of the policemen ran up to her. 

"Ma'am," he asked. "Did you see anything suspicious?" 

"No, officer," Susana said, blinking behind her glasses. "Why?" 

"We've had reports of a murder. Please clear the area." 

Susana was more than happy to comply. The streets were thronged with young professionals dressed as she was. No one questioned her. She walked for a block and was ready to hail a cab when a newsstand caught her eye. 

The paper in question was the _Tattler_. Across its top blared a headline that caught her attention. 

ALL IN THE FAMILY:AGENT STARLING TRACKS DOWN HER OWN COUSIN. 

There was a young blond woman's picture on the left side of the paper. On the right….

_Oh my,_ Susana thought. _I can't believe they used that picture._

On the right was a picture of Susana in the Wheeling hospital bed she had occupied two years ago, when Agent Mapp had tried to arrest her and damn near killed her instead. Susana reached into her briefcase and removed a five dollar bill. She bought a copy of it and hailed a cab. The cab driver seemed Hispanic, so Susana tried speaking Spanish to him. When she did, the cabbie lit up and asked her where she was from. She told him and gave him the address to her hotel. 

As the cab fought rush-hour downtown traffic, Susana read the article. Her expression changed from angry to fascinated. 

_Lisa Starling, FBI special agent, is hard at work with her FBI co-workers in tracking her own cousin. Lisa's first cousin, Clarice Starling, disappeared from the FBI almost thirty years ago with infamous serial killer Dr. Hannibal 'the Cannibal' Lecter. Lisa is determined to remove the stain from her family name by bringing to justice the daughter of this unholy relationship: alleged serial killer Susana Alvarez Lecter. Susana is suspected of committing several grisly murders in Chicago two years ago. _

"Cousin Lisa," Susana mused. "Who'd have thought?" 

In the back of a New York City cab, Susana Alvarez Lecter smiled horribly.


	3. Gifts

Twilight began to claim the town of Menatchie, West Virginia. Children playing out in the street ran home. Menatchie was a small town, and safe after dark, but the streetlights did not cast much light and it was easier to play inside.

There are a thousand towns like Menatchie dotting the South. They are generally poor and mostly populated by black men and women. These are neither the dangerous ghettoes that provide news fodder nor the wealthier black suburbs that spring up around most major cities. Towns like Menatchie constitute a blank spot in the collective memory of African-Americans. And that is a shame, because there is something uniquely American and hopeful in towns of this type. 

The houses are small and the population largely works in jobs that require long hours and pay very low wages. Towns like Menatchie are often down-at-the-heels, but most of the people who live there own their own homes, trying to catch their little piece of the American Dream. Many homeowners keep their houses looking as nice as they can. A few, of course, give up as time goes on. 

Towns like Menatchie are often created and sustained solely by black people. Often, the mayor is black, the school board, police chief, and indeed the entire police department – all ten or twelve men – is black. Yet they never receive any accolades for their creations, or for keeping the town's departments running. 

Those who grow up in towns like Menatchie often leave the towns never to return. The genteel poverty and barely lower-middle-class status often drives them to greater things. This is something that crosses the color barrier: both Clarice and Lisa Starling have done exactly this from their own respective hometowns. But despite the poverty and the constant teetering on the edge of stability that is endemic to these towns, there is a quiet pride here. The townsfolk are largely good neighbors: they work hard at their jobs and raise their kids right. 

Menatchie is a town like many others, but it takes special pride in its police chief. The department is small and buys its cruisers used from a wealthier town. Twelve men work in three shifts there, keeping the townspeople safe from those who would hurt them. The police chief in Menatchie was once Section Chief of Behavioral Sciences for the FBI. Menatchie is proud to have her. 

The townsfolk of Menatchie did not know that Ardelia Mapp resented her position in life intently. Menatchie lay only twenty miles away from the town where Clarice Starling grew up. And where, years later, Susana Alvarez Lecter visited her grandfather's grave – the grave Ardelia had bought for him – and where Ardelia had tried to arrest her. The botched arrest, and the subsequent escape of Susana Alvarez Lecter from custody in the Wheeling Hospital ICU, had doomed Ardelia's career. 

Police Chief Ardelia Mapp adjusted her ugly tan-and-brown uniform blouse and scowled at the office. Like the rest of Menatchie, the police station was down-at-the-heels. Her office was the largest, but even so, it was ugly gray cinderblock walls and a cheap wooden desk. The radio buzzed in incessantly with her officers calling in. The dispatcher sat at her desk in the main room outside. She glanced in hesitantly at Ardelia behind her glass door. 

Ardelia was studying the _Tattler_. The headline had caught her eye. She did not recognize the cute blond girl on the left. As she pored over the picture, she recognized the good high cheekbones and delicate features she had seen once before. But the picture on the right brought back a rush of old memories and resentment. 

Two years of running a municipal department. Two years of being the down-at-the-heels cousin to other law enforcement agencies. She resented deeply the looks former FBI colleagues had given her. She'd done a lot for this department and this town since moving here. She was respected and liked here. But in the outside world, her ugly uniform and tiny area of jurisdiction spelled it out. Ardelia Mapp, failure. 

Ardelia removed her knife from her belt. The knife was a Harpy. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, were he still alive, would have found that choice of a blade very, very interesting. _Identifying with your tormentor, Ardelia? _ She carefully cut the pictures out and tacked them to her bulletin board with a thumbtack. 

"You're here, you little bitch, huh?" she said to the picture of Susana Alvarez Lecter. "Well, this time I'm gonna get you. And I'm going to do it right." 

She stared at the picture of the injured girl, lying in a hospital bed Ardelia had put her in, and then stared at her phone. 

_You're not FBI anymore, Ardelia. You're Podunk PD. You've got something resembling a life here. Don't screw it up. _

No way, she thought back to the voice. _Susana Alvarez Lecter took my career away from me and dumped me in this hick Podunk town. I'll prove it to everyone. I'll bring that little bitch in and present her to the great illustrious FBI in handcuffs. _

Ardelia picked up the phone and dialed the number that phone companies routinely make available to police officers. 

"Hi," she told the operator. "This is Police Chief Ardelia Mapp, Menatchie Police Department. I need the number for Lisa Starling." 

"What city, please?" 

"I'm not sure. Arlington, I think." 

Ardelia was lucky. She hit paydirt. The operator gave her the phone number. After writing it down and hanging up, Ardelia leaned back in her chair and tapped a pen against her teeth thoughtfully. 

_Fuck it. I can't stand coming in here every day, watching my boys jug drunks and settle domestic disputes. _

She dialed the number. A young woman's voice answered. For a moment, Ardelia was stunned. She had hoped to hear a voice like Clarice's. Lisa Starling sounded rather like she was a twelve-year-old. 

"Agent Starling?" she asked, and a great sadness invaded her gut to say those words again. 

"Yes, who is this?" 

"My name is Ardelia Mapp," she said. "You may have heard of me. I'd like to discuss Susana Alvarez Lecter with you." 

…

Lisa Starling was ensconced down in her cubicle at Quantico. She wore a pair of headphones, which were hooked to a tape player. She rewound the tape and played it again for the tenth time. Screams and the wet-punch sounds of stabbings invaded her ears. She was calm as she listened, not disturbed by the horror on tape. There it was. 

"Mr. Herman was very rude," Susana Alvarez Lecter said. "Please, we implore you not to be rude. It might save your life someday. This concludes our public service announcement."

It was frightening, certainly. Susana sounded awfully calm for a woman who had just castrated and then killed a man. It was certainly a gutsy move, executing a man with millions of listeners in New York, New Jersey and Connecticut listening. It was too bad that they did not have a recording of Susana Alvarez on file to try and voiceprint it. Nonetheless, Lisa was positive that Susana had done this. The voice sounded like it was a young woman. There wasn't even the slightest hint of a Spanish accent, but she knew that her cousin's English was only accented when she wanted it to be. 

A lab tech poked her head past the black curtains that marked off Lisa's cube from the rest of the world. 

"Agent Starling," she said calmly, "the autopsy results are in. Wanna come see?" 

"Definitely," Lisa said, and put down her headphones. 

__

"We have a surprise for you," the lab tech said. 

"I've seen corpses before," Lisa said calmly. "It doesn't bother me." 

"It's not that. We don't have the body here, actually. Well, not all of it." 

In the lab, the tech handed Lisa a few sheets of paper. Lisa scanned the topmost sheet. In dry, academic terminology, the report listed how Ray Herman had died. Eighteen stab wounds were found in the abdomen and thorax. A large slice had cut into his belly and ran up to the ribcage. Lisa raised her eyes. 

"Portions of the external genitalia were excised?" she read quizzically. "What a way to put it." 

"It gets better," the tech said calmly. 

Lisa continued reading. "The excised material was found in the oral cavity of the deceased." She looked at the tech. "So she stuffed it in his mouth after she cut it off." 

The tech nodded. "Only one thing, though," she said. 

Lisa sighed. Tech drama was well known through the FBI. They liked to drag things out and make you guess. Agents commonly did not understand all of the black arts of the tech.

"Well, what's the one thing now?" she asked. Her drawl grew stronger, indicating her annoyance. 

"It's not his," the tech said drily. 

"Not his?" 

"We ran blood tests on blood that we found in the…umm..the severed member. Blood type doesn't match." The tech smiled briefly with gallows humor. "It's not his weiner. It's somebody else's." 

Lisa wrinkled her nose. It was the only expression of disgust she ever permitted herself while on duty. She knew that others would think she was weak because she was young and female and inexperienced. She would not allow herself to gag or even pull a distressed face no matter what horror she was confronted with at work. Only nose wrinkling was allowable. She did not yet realize that it made her look like a little girl confronted with a worm.

"Do we know whose it is?" she asked, knowing the tech would not volunteer the information. Part of it was tech drama; part of it was testing her. 

"Very good, Agent Starling. Yes, we do. The security guard at the studio had also been stabbed. It's his. Blood type and DNA matches."

"Have we found Mr. Herman's penis?" She refused to be circumspect about it. It was evidence, it was missing, and she wasn't going to be coy. 

"No. It was not in the studio when NYPD got in there. There were some blood stains on the carpet that probably came from it, but it's gone." 

_Trophy taker_, Lisa thought. Susana had taken a few trophies from her previous murders, but never body parts. She had taken police badges and guns and walkie-talkies from her victims, as well as the cruiser she had converted to an impromptu gas chamber. Behavioral Science was split on whether this qualified her as a trophy taker or if she had simply taken them to use them later on. Lisa had privately believed that her murderous kin took them only to use them later on. The police paraphernalia all ended up used in later murders. 

Was she now taking trophies? Lisa didn't think so. It wasn't a Lecter thing to do. Taking trophies was for 'lower' killers, killers who were controlled by their own demons. Although her cousin was capable of horrible atrocities, Lisa considered her like her diabolical father. Susana killed because she wanted to, not because she needed to. If she made a mistake, it wouldn't be a stupid one. 

In fact, Lisa believed that Susana would flee New York relatively quickly. She was a foreigner; she had no real attachment to New York City. She would know that the crime she had committed – about as high-profile as they came – would make New York swiftly inhospitable. In Chicago, she had the advantage of being unknown. Not so this time. She might _strike _again in New York City, but after two murders she would not _be_ there. 

But just as the guards of the law were up, so were Susana's. She would not do something obvious like visit her grandfather's grave on the anniversary of his death as she had before. She might dare them somehow, but she would cover her tracks. 

Lisa Starling returned to her desk, still thinking about how to catch her cousin. She was not thrilled to see Deputy Chief DeGraff waiting in the curtained-off hallway, his arms folded. 

"Hello, Agent Starling," he said coldly. 

"Hello, sir," she said neutrally. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked. 

"I'm reviewing the autopsy reports on Ray Herman," she answered. "Mr. Herman was mutilated, as you know." 

He nodded. "Don't worry your pretty little head too much about it, Agent Starling." 

Lisa quelled the rush of anger that rose in her. "Excuse me, _sir_?" she said. 

"Leave it to the profilers." 

"I am attached to this case, for now," she said calmly. She knew if she reacted angrily, she would be falling right into his trap. A recruit fresh out of the Academy would have little chance in an argument with a deputy chief. 

"You're not a profiler," he said. "You're never even been on a case before. Oh, I know. You've graduated from the Academy. But the people here are professionals. You're still wet behind the ears. Don't pretend to be something you're not, Agent Starling. Spend a few years in the field offices first. Once you've gotten some experience under your belt, then you'll be a real FBI agent." 

"I am here because Chief Quincy asked me to be," she said. 

"And don't think that's because of you. That's because of your last name and some crazy theory on Quincy's part. You're not here to help the investigation. You're here as a publicity stunt. Go home, Starling. Go home and let the real agents do the investigating." 

"I'd like to help, sir," she said in a faint whisper. Tears burned behind her eyes. She clamped them shut and forced the tears away. "I'm just trying to do my job." 

"Go home, Starling. That's an order." 

"Sir?" 

"Are you questioning an order?" His eyes, the same shade of gray as his suit, pierced her. There was no sympathy in them at all. His mouth turned down sourly. 

"No, sir," she said, and bit her lip. She gathered up her things and left. 

DeGraff watched her go. _Damn kid,_ he thought. _Maybe one day she'll end up with enough of a thick skin to survive around here. But not if she cries whenever she gets yelled at by a superior. _ _Damn Quincy anyway, him and his publicity stunt. Girl like that ought to be a school psychologist. Or a kindergarten teacher. Something where she'd do some good instead of getting in the way here. _

Lisa Starling took deep breaths in the elevator up to the surface. Why did he hate her so much? What had she ever done to him? Or was he just one of the people who heard her name and figured she must be just like her traitorous cousin? 

It was drizzling, and Lisa was soon covered in a sheath of wet droplets. She tried to protect her head with her papers. _Figures. Matches my mood. _Her car was across the parking lot, and she jogged across the wet macadam to get to it. Lisa Starling did not own a Mustang as the other side of the family favored. She drove an eight-year-old Trans Am. The car smelled of air freshener and was well cared for. She opened the door and sat down behind the wheel. For just a moment, she took a deep, sobbing breath and wiped the tears furiously from her eyes. 

Then she started the car and slammed it into first. Like her cousin, Lisa knew how to drive stick shift and preferred it. The car sped past the Marine guard at the gate fast enough that he waved a finger at her in a _tut-tut-tut _gesture and smiled. The car headlights popped up and pierced the drizzly gray air. 

Home was an apartment in Arlington. Lisa entered the institutional-looking hallway and climbed up the institutional-looking stairs. Her door was bland and gray. The apartment number was labeled on it in gold letters, the only attempt to make the place seem attractive. 

By her door lay a package from FedEx. Lisa picked it up curiously and looked at it. Her name was printed in neat block letters. The return address was illegible. The package had been shipped from New York City. 

A brief chill ran through Lisa. She wondered if she shouldn't call Forensics. Then she thought of DeGraff telling her she was just a publicity stunt and to let the real profilers do the work. So she unlocked her door and padded to the tiny area that claimed to be her kitchen. 

The tape yielded to a sturdy kitchen knife. She opened the box to reveal a cream-colored envelope. Her name was written across the center of the envelope. She looked at it with trepidation and took it out. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter's handwriting was nothing like her father's copperplate. Instead, she had a round and flowing girl's script. Lisa almost had to laugh upon seeing it. The killer's handwriting was utterly unremarkable. Her penmanship was neat, but the writing itself looked like the handwriting of any number of young women.

The subject matter was not unremarkable, however. 

_Dear Cousin Lisa, _

I must admit to having been surprised to read about you in the paper. Not that you had joined the manhunt to bring me to 'justice'. Rather, that you even existed. I'm afraid that my mother neglected to inform me that you walked the earth. Was there a family feud I didn't know about, perhaps? Did your daddy wrong my grandfather somehow? Brothers always fight, it's said. 

If there was, it's silly. Both my grandfather and your daddy are dead and in the ground. I did a bit of background research, if you don't mind. It's true that my grandfather died in the line of duty whereas your daddy sold hog feed and died in bed with a prostitute, but none of that matters now, hmmm? They're both simply bones now. No need to pick over old bones. I was unable to find out much about your mother, so I must suppose she was one of those unremarkable West Virginia women who bore a litter of children for her husband, slapped them around, and lived and died without drawing any undue attention to herself.

The FBI as a career, hmmmm? You must be a glutton for punishment, dear Cousin Lisa. The FBI is not a forgiving place, and it is hardly a haven for Starlings right now. The FBI deeply, deeply resents my mother's decision to not play their game and to instead go with her heart. If you continue in the FBI, you'll bear a scarlet S on your breast for life, I'm afraid. 

When I was a little girl, my mother often used to take me out onto the terrace. She would have the servants bring us drinks – wine for her, apple juice or milk for me. She told me of her prior life – we would talk for hours. She told me a few times that the FBI was no place for a lady. I doubt you had quite the same urge to be a lady that I did – the daughter of a hog feed salesman and a cipher would probably have precious little grasp of ladylike – but it struck me as a terrible place if one could not be ladylike there. When I grew older, she was more crude about it: she told me when I was fourteen that "you could only succeed in the FBI if you had a dick". 

Nature has denied us both that organ, which may be for the best – ever notice how men seem to be ruled almost completely by that particular piece of flesh? However, I am nothing if not a considerate relative, so I've included a small gift to help you get by that particular postulate of my mother's. 

I suppose you want very badly to meet me right now, and I cannot help but suspect that your motivations are not to recreate family ties. So I'll have to decline that request for right now. But I promise you, Cousin Lisa, you'll see my face soon enough. 

Your cousin and pal, 

Susana Alvarez Lecter 

The letter alternately angered and frightened Lisa. Apparently, Susana had inherited her father's ability to home in on her weak points and find exactly what would needle her the most. She had also done some research on her. She had her home address, obviously enough. Plus, she knew the humiliating circumstances of Lisa's father's death. Suddenly Lisa felt very vulnerable. She reached down for the 9mm Glock on her belt. Its cool plastic grip felt good in her hand and comforted her. Then her eyes wandered over the bottom of the letter again. 

_However, I am nothing if not a considerate relative, so I've included a small gift to help you get by that particular postulate of my mother's. _

Lisa swallowed. _Oh God. She didn't. She didn't. _

In the box was a bundle wrapped in fine silk. It was white silk. One end was stained with blood and other stains Lisa did not want to think about. She took a deep breath and pulled the silk free. A fleshy cylinder spun from within the silk and fell on Lisa's kitchen floor. 

Lisa stared at it in horror. 

"Oh, Jesus _Christ!_" she said. She closed her eyes once and gave herself a moment or two to tremble. Then she carefully picked up the phone, dialed a number, and in a very careful and calm voice, she told the secretary of Behavioral Sciences what had happened and to please send out a forensics team to her apartment. 

She thought for a moment and asked if the tech was still there. The secretary told her that she was. 

"Could I speak with her, please?" Lisa asked, trying not to stare at the severed piece of flesh lying on her kitchen linoleum. 

"Sure," the secretary said, and helpfully connected her to the lab. 

"Crime lab. Barbara speaking," came crisply from the receiver 

"Hi, Barbara," Lisa said tightly. "Remember how I asked you where Mr. Herman's missing penis was?" 

The older woman was nonplussed. "Well…yes…why?" 

"Guess what?" Lisa continued humorlessly. "I found it." 

__


	4. Battles won and lost

At the next roundtable meeting of the SUSDOOVER force, the topic was a man who had been dead for half a century. 

Lisa Starling sat in the same spot she had before. She had a note pad and was intently watching as Chief Quincy got underway. Today would not be a lecture as Quincy had done before. Today, there would be a brief presentation of the background material, but after that, it would be a discussion. Plans to capture Susana Alvarez Lecter were underway. 

Lisa found some degree of satisfaction in the message Chief Quincy had written on the whiteboard before the meeting began. She knew who it was aimed at. 

LEAVE YOUR STRIPES AT THE DOOR. 

This time, she was one of the first in the door. This time, she was determined to stick up for herself. This time, she wore pants.

Lisa knew that when her cousin had walked these halls, she had developed a reputation for being headstrong and difficult to get along with. She had tried to be pleasant, deferential, and a team player. It had worked with most of the team. It hadn't with DeGraff. She saw him come in and scowl briefly when he saw her. 

Chief Quincy's background was rather quick. A picture of a man in a cowboy hat flashed on the screen. 

"This is John Starling," Chief Quincy said. "Clarice Starling's father and Susana Alvarez's grandfather. The anniversary of his death is three days from now." 

"We ought to stake out his grave on that say," DeGraff said. "Slam dunk. She'll visit it." 

Lisa leaned forward and cleared her throat. DeGraff scowled again. 

"With all due respect, sir, I doubt she will," she began. "The last time Susana Alvarez visited his grave, she was almost arrested and got hit by a truck. She may try to visit it, but she'll probably do so the day before." 

"What makes you say that?" asked Chief Quincy. His tone betrayed interest, not scorn. 

"Because of what happened before," she said. "She knows we'll be looking. Susana is cocky, but she isn't stupid. She might try the day after, but I think she'll visit the day before, so that when we get there, there will be a calling card on the grave. She might even be in the area to watch us find it, but I doubt it. If she is, she'll be safely far away where we can't catch her."

DeGraff frowned. "You think so, Agent Starling?" 

"Yes, I do." Lisa pushed forward some sheets she had photocopied before the meeting. "Susana Alvarez killed four Chicago police officers and walked away. She knows to keep her head about her. Staking out the grave won't work. She'll twist it on us." 

"And what would you do?" DeGraff asked. "Pass it up?" 

Lisa shook her head. "Have agents staked out around the graveyard the day before the anniversary," she said. "The day of, have agents with heat scopes and maybe bloodhounds. But I'm thinking she'll leave us a calling card that will convey her contempt all by itself. I don't think she'll be there, but we can cover all bases." 

"Not a bad idea," Chief Quincy said, and DeGraff scowled again. "It's a little expensive, though. Any other ways to track her?" 

DeGraff thought for a moment. Then, in a carefully neutral tone of voice, he asked, "Agent Starling? How often do you get your nails done?" 

Lisa opened her mouth and said nothing for a moment or two. Then, in a tone of voice that was just as carefully neutral, she said, "I don't get my nails done, sir. It gets in the way of firearms practice." 

DeGraff sighed as if she was being terribly unreasonable. "You know what I mean. How often do girls get their nails done?" 

"How often do _women_ get their nails done, do you mean? It depends. And what relevance does this have to the investigation?" 

He held his hands up in the air helplessly. "Because. Girls like to get their nails done. If we know how long it takes--" 

"I don't," Lisa said archly. 

"_Lecter _does!" DeGraff reached into his folder and took out a photocopied receipt. He brandished it in the air and waved his other hand as if to suggest that the whole idea was a silly bunch of female nonsense. Lisa stared at him blankly. For a moment, the image of Dr. Hannibal Lecter arose in her mind, his hand extended to receive a manicure. 

Ralph Lima leaned forward in his chair. He raised a finger at Lisa. 

"Wait a moment, Agent Starling," he said. "I think I know where Peter is going with this." He took the receipt. 

"Susana Alvarez got her nails done in DC two years ago. Now don't take this the wrong way, but you _are _the only woman here." He chuckled and raised his hand palm up to show he meant no offense. "We're all simpleminded and brutish men here, and this sort of thing is not something we know. This receipt says 'color and fill'. Do you know what that means?" 

Lisa pressed her lips together. Ralph had not been antagonistic towards her – he had actually been pretty friendly. And as annoying as it was, DeGraff might have found a way to track the monster. She could see where he was going with this.

"That means that she probably had acrylic nails glued on," Lisa said hedgingly. She wanted to help, but it galled her that DeGraff had thought of it. It was so simple, too. "You have to get them filled as your nail grows. That's probably what she did." She saw the look of lean triumph on DeGraff's face as she continued. The worst part was he had neatly backed her into a corner. If she refused to help, she would look like the uncooperative one. If she did, she would look like the team's beauty consultant. "Every two weeks, three weeks, maybe, depending on how quickly her nails grow." 

"And that's a way to track her," DeGraff concluded triumphantly. "She's big into all this girly stuff. Nails, hair, hell, I don't know. Whatever girls get done. And she's got expensive tastes. Just like Dr. Lecter. She'll insist on the best. We ought to hand out her picture to the best salons, see if any of them have seen her." 

Chief Quincy nodded. "Good idea, DeGraff," he said. 

Inwardly, Lisa seethed. Her carefully researched suggestion that Susana Alvarez Lecter would visit her grandfather's grave the day before the anniversary of his death was forgotten. What everyone would remember would be DeGraff – DeGraff, the woman-hater, no less – and his theory that Susana Alvarez Lecter could be tracked by her indulgences at the best beauty salons. And damn it all, he was _right_. There were only a few salons that would meet Susana Alvarez Lecter's standards, and they might remember her. 

"I'd be happy to go to New York and pass out her picture," Lisa said helpfully, smiling at DeGraff with faux perkiness. She waited for him to try and torpedo the idea. He would not want to share glory with her. 

But he was perhaps a bit magnanimous in his victory. 

"That's a fine idea," he said, and for a moment Lisa wondered if he intended to keep her out of the loop. Was this a trap? A garbage detail to keep her busy? 

"But I do think you ought to have a more experienced agent with you when you go," he added. 

Chief Quincy shrugged. "She doesn't need a babysitter," he said. 

DeGraff smiled slickly. "I'm not saying she does, Don. But we partner up for a reason." 

"Beauty salons tend to be low-danger areas, sir," Lisa said half-sarcastically. 

"And what if Susana Alvarez Lecter is _in _one when you go and she sees you? You willing to bet your life you can outdraw her? She _does_ know what you look like, you know. " He shook his head and smiled tolerantly, as if dealing with a little girl who did not understand why she had to wear a jacket in the cold. 

"I'll partner up with her, then," Ralph Lima burst in. 

Neither Lisa nor DeGraff had expected this. They looked at him with identical looks of surprise. 

"Oh, I suppose they won't expect a bearded old dude like me at these places, but I'll go with her. And you know, it's been a while since I last had a manicure." He examined his nails critically. 

Everyone laughed. Everyone except DeGraff and Lisa. 

…

Roland Mapp got out of the shower and looked in the mirror. He stretched his big black body and was pleased. He had just gotten home from work. The bathroom was white marble, with a black sink and shower stall. It was very modern. 

Roland was a stockbroker, and did quite well for himself. He brought in a very comfortable income, and lived in a new apartment building on the Upper West Side. After toweling himself off, he dressed quickly and efficiently. He chose a new pair of black slacks, a white shirt, and a royal-blue jacket. He glanced at himself in the mirror again and was pleased with what he saw. 

It was Friday night, and Roland intended to find himself some companionship at the Soho clubs he frequented. His work left little time for a relationship, and he didn't want the time and hassle of a relationship anyway. But he had time, and he meant to call his parents and aunt before he left. 

Roland sat down at his computer and entered the necessary information to videoconference with his parents. Although he liked to live well, he was thrifty in some cases. He had a high-speed Internet hookup, and with that he could speak with his parents for as long as he liked for free. Plus, he could see them too. Much better than the phone. 

After checking in with his parents, he videoconferenced with his aunt. She had a connection, but a slow one – an old-style DSL line. Roland shook his head, amazed at it. How primitive. Then again, in that little Podunk town in West Virginia, he wasn't surprised. Still, he could see his aunt and talk to her. Things had been hard for Aunt Ardelia ever since she had to leave the FBI. He and his parents were her only family. 

She seemed quite happy to see him. Behind her, Roland could see her empty kitchen table with one place setting. Something yellow sat on a plate where he had apparently interrupted her meal. Mac and cheese, he thought. How sad. If she came up to see him, he would cook her a killer meal. Roland liked to cook. 

"Am I interrupting your dinner, Aunt Ardelia?" he asked, even though he knew the answer. 

She shook her pixelated head. "Not at all," she said. "It's always nice to talk to you." 

"How's life in Menatchie?" 

She shrugged. "It'll do. Every now and then I think of applying for reinstatement to the FBI." 

Roland had to be delicate here. "Would they take you back?" 

"I don't know," she admitted. "I was on suspension when I resigned. They might let bygones be bygones. I wouldn't run Behavioral Sciences again, of course, but they might let me be a profiler there." She laughed ruefully and gestured at the old house around her. "Of course, it would mean giving up all this." 

"Do it," Roland said promptly. "Worst they can say is no, right?" 

"I don't know," she said distantly. "If they did…I don't know what I'd do." 

"C'mon," Roland urged. "If you don't, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what would happen if you did."

"I suppose," she said. "I'll think about it. It was good talking with you, Roland." 

"Bye, Aunt Ardelia," he said. 

"Bye," she said. Then the image of her disappeared and was replaced by a gray box informing him that the other party had ended the connection, and asked him to acknowledge this change in developments by clicking OK. 

Roland rose, took the elevator downstairs, and hailed a cab to SoHo. The clubs were hopping already, as people went inside to seek out libation and companionship. He muscled his way through the crowd and made his way to the bar. 

He scoped out the women who looked available. One in particular caught his eye. She was alone, over by the edge of the bar, and sipped at a glass of amber wine. She was looking at him. Her gaze was direct and piercing. That was good. Roland preferred women who knew what they wanted. He knifed through the crowd and made his way to her side. 

Up close, she was a stunner. Perfect makeup, long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and that dress fit her like a scarlet glove. She smiled at him with red lips. Her eyes were easily her best feature, though. Maroon eyes, like pools of blood. He smiled confidently at her. 

"I saw you looking at me," he said. "What's your name?" 

"Susana," she answered. 

…

Ardelia Mapp sat on her couch and clicked the remote desultorily. Thank God for cable TV, she thought. A thousand channels and nothing she particularly wanted to watch. She settled on a movie about the FBI. It hurt in some ways to see it, but it reminded her of happier times. 

She watched the faux FBI agents try to profile a killer who skinned his victims and smirked. _Based off a true story, I guess. No, wait! You can't mess up a crime scene like that! _ The actress playing the young, pretty FBI agent busily went about tearing apart a garage in which she was told she would discover a severed head. 

"If you worked for me, kiddo, you'd be fired for getting your mitts in a crime scene like that," she told the TV actress. "You wear gloves. All the time, every time." 

_You're not FBI anymore. The only crime scenes you see now are bar fights, domestic disputes, and shoplifters_. 

An electronic tone warbled, breaking her concentration. Ardelia lifted her head and looked around. It wasn't the phone. She knew that right off the top of her head. Wasn't her portable, either. 

She glanced around and saw a gray box on her computer, which was making the warbling sound. She walked over to it and examined it closely. 

_Incoming call from Roland Mapp _appeared on the screen. 

Ardelia frowned. Had something come up? She'd talked to him hours ago. 

She clicked OK. Instead of starting the call, another box came up. 

_This is a secure call. Click OK to automatically adjust your settings. _

Ardelia clicked OK again. Her screen turned black for an instant, and then her nephew appeared on the screen. He was seated in his leather computer chair. His arms lay on the armrest. Silver duct tape held his wrists to the chair. One eye was swollen shut. A nasty knot swelled on his forehead just over the eye.

"Roland?" she asked. "Are you OK?" 

Roland did not reply. Another head appeared next to his in the upper corner of the frame. A young woman, with brown hair and merciless eyes. Merciless _maroon _eyes. Ardelia knew who it was instantly.

"You," she breathed to Susana Alvarez Lecter. 

"Me," the young woman in the screen agreed. 

"What do you think you're doing?" 

"What does it look like?" Susana asked reasonably. Her hand appeared in the frame. In it was Roland Mapp's Henckel meat cleaver. "I owe you some pain, you know. You caused me enough." 

Ardelia Mapp's face slowly melted into an expression of horror. She reached out and touched the cold glass of the monitor as if she could put her hand through and save her nephew. "No," she whimpered powerlessly. 

Susana laid her head next to her bound victim's and smiled coldly. "Don't we make a cute couple?" she questioned. Roland trembled. The thick piece of duct tape over his mouth prevented him from adding his opinion. 

"Susana, don't," Ardelia said powerlessly. Her knees turned to jelly. "Your beef is with me. Roland hasn't done anything. Let him go." 

"Well," Susana said, "problem is, you'll all the way out there and I'm here. Efficiency, you know." She grinned into the camera. "And this will hurt you far, far worse than my killing you would ever do."

Ardelia's mind spun. This monster meant to kill her only nephew right in front of her. There was nothing she could do to prevent it. Even if she called the NYPD, by the time they sent someone out Roland would be dead and Susana long gone. 

"Please. Please don't," she whined. "God, don't. Take me. It's me you want." 

Susana tilted the blade of the meat cleaver so that it reflected the light into the webcam Ardelia watched through. She tested the blade with her thumb, nodding approvingly. 

"Nice," she said. She turned to the bound man next to her. "You have good taste in cutlery," she told him. "Henckels. None of that cheap stuff for you, right? Unlike your aunt, you've got some taste." 

Slowly, paralyzed with fear, Roland shook his head. 

"They say you have to be careful with these, though," she warned him. "They're well made and tough and heavy. You can chop off fingers with these, if you're not careful." 

"_NO!" _Ardelia screamed, and slammed her own fingers against the monitor because she knew what was coming. 

Susana raised the meat cleaver high and brought it down where Roland's hand was bound. The blade sank into the ebony wood of the chair arm. Behind the duct-tape gag, Roland screamed and threw himself about ineffectually. 

With a horrible grin of triumph, Susana lifted his severed fingers and displayed them for Ardelia. "What do you know," she said. "It did." She dropped them on the floor like an unpleasant detail. Ardelia glanced over at her phone longingly. 

On the screen, Susana smirked. "Thinking of calling the cops, Ardelia? You won't possibly have time." 

"No," Ardelia said quickly. "No, of course not." 

_Think like a cop. Think like a cop, Ardelia. Get the evidence. _

Ardelia stealthily moved her mouse over to the 'Record Call' icon. Even if she couldn't stop Susana, she could gather evidence. Maybe keep her talking long enough to get a cop out there. But if Susana saw her with a phone, she would kill Roland immediately. 

Ardelia clicked 'Record Call'. Nothing happened. She clicked it a few more times before noticing that it was grayed out. She strove to keep herself from cursing at the damn computer. 

_Where is the damn thing? _On the screen, Susana was running the blade of the cleaver under Roland's chin. He wasn't bleeding yet, so she had to be just torturing him. _Hang on, Roland. Working on it. _ Ardelia selected 'Tools'. A small submenu appeared on the screen. 

'Record Call' was grayed out again. Ardelia's lips twisted in frustration. 

"Ready, Ardelia?" Susana called mockingly. "Better watch this. You don't want to miss it." 

Ardelia reached out with her left foot, intending to drag her phone over to her witbout Susana seeing it. With her hand, she was frantically trying to search the help files for her videoconference program. She chose 'Record Call'. She twined her foot around the phone cord and began to haul it over.

_To record a call, click 'Record Call', select 'Record Call' from the Tools menu, or press Ctrl-Shift-R. Secure calls cannot be recorded,._the computer informed her. 

Goddamn computers, Ardelia thought. 

She had to stall Susana. Stall her, keep him alive. 

"Susana, please," she said in a placatory tone. "I know you're angry with me. But Roland is innocent. He hasn't done anything. It's me you want." 

"Well, yes I do," Susana agreed, "but I wouldn't be caught dead in a hole like Menatchie. Honestly, Ardelia. My mother fled West Virginia and never came back. I didn't like it either myself. They weren't very neighborly." 

Roland whimpered like a whipped puppy as she continued playing with the cleaver under his chin. Ardelia tried to block it out of her mind as she twined the cord around her foot. The heavy black phone dragged an inch closer to her. 

"Susana, listen to me. If you kill Roland, I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth. I'll throw you in front of another truck. I'll hunt you down and make you sorry." She pointed at the image of the monster on the screen. 

"Such bravado," Susana said. "You couldn't find my parents for _years_, Ardelia. And now you're not even good enough for the FBI." 

"He's my only nephew," Ardelia implored. "You want me? Fine. Name the time and the place. I'll be there. Unarmed, no other cops, no nothing. Just don't kill him." 

The phone advanced another inch or two. Its rubber feet clung to the floor and made it difficult to pull it along. 

"I almost believe you," Susana said dreamily. "Now let me get this straight…if I put down this cleaver and spare your nephew, you'll let me kill you in his place." 

"Yes," Ardelia panted, thinking of Agent Starling. Thinking of the good old HRT, the Hostage Rescue Team, lined with with snipers in trees, all sighted in on Susana Alvarez Lecter. She thought of several bullets all fired at once entering the girl's body. 

"This cleaver," Susana specified, waggling it in front of the camera. 

"Yes, that cleaver," Ardelia said through gritted teeth. She fought the urge to add _you psychotic little bitch._ The phone was four or five scant inches from her hand. She lowered herself in the chair and strained to reach it. Her fingertips touched the smooth plastic of the receiver. 

Susana tossed the cleaver onto the floor with a loud clatter. 

"There you go," she said. Ardelia let out a mighty sigh. She carefully removed the receiver from the hook and reached down to dial the number that rang into headquarters. Not 911, the local number. 

Susana tilted her head and frowned. 

"Why are you hunching like that?" she demanded. 

Ardelia dropped the phone. Her eyes widened. The phone was one of the old Bell Telephone models, well made and durable. When the receiver hit her hardwood floor, it made an audible _clunk_. She prayed that Susana had not heard it.

"You were trying to call your buddies, weren't you, Ardelia?" Susana said in the tones of a girl who has caught her friend cheating on her diet. 

"No. No, I just kicked something by accident. The cat." Ardelia shook her head. 

"You have a plastic cat? That's so tacky it might be true, given your taste. But I don't tolerate liars." 

Like an evil magician, Susana produced a long, thin filet knife from outside of the camera's view. Her eyes flared as she displayed the knife for the camera. Roland threw his head back and around in a fruitless, final act of defiance. Her eyes bored into Ardelia's all the while. She drew the knife firmly across Roland's throat. Her lips curled up in a cruel smile as she saw Ardelia's face turn ashy gray as the blood began to ooze from the long slit in Roland's throat. In a gesture of contempt, she reversed her grip on the knife so that she held it like a hammer and put the carbon-steel point into Roland's eye. She turned the blade a measured ninety degrees. Fortunately for Roland, he was already dying quickly and did not suffer for terribly long. The knife stuck out like an exclamation point from the ruins of his eye. He gave one or two more ineffectual bucks against his bonds, and then slumped back dead.

Susana stood up and away from the corpse so that she did not get blood on her. She tilted her head and pointed a perfectly manicured and flawlessly polished nail at Ardelia. She would never know just how much she sounded like a young Clarice Starling. 

"There," she said. "You goddam happy now? You killed him, Ardelia. You and your goddam 

plastic cat." 

Tears burned behind Ardelia's eyes. She stared at the horror on her monitor with a look of bombed-out horror on her face. She shook her head slowly. Then the first few threads of rage began to seep into her. 

"You little bitch," she said in a dry, toneless voice. "I swear by everything I hold holy that I'm going to hunt you down and kill you if it's the last thing I do." 

"You have to catch me first," Susana said archly. Her hand came down on the mouse. Her image disappeared on Ardelia's computer. Replacing it was a simple gray box that read: 

_The other party has terminated the connection._


	5. The Monster's Tracks

Lisa Starling was pleased. Things were going well. She had scored not one hit on Susana Alvarez Lecter but two. 

Ralph Lima had been pleasant on the drive to the airport. He discussed the case with her. He challenged her opinions and kept her on her toes regarding her theories about her cousin, but that was to be expected. She could tell that his intent was to make her a better profiler rather than tear her down as DeGraff seemed to want to do so badly. 

The airport was busy and bustling. Lima took the lead in explaining to the airline that they were FBI agents and would therefore be traveling armed. The woman at the ticketing counter handed them forms to fill out and asked to photocopy their ID. 

At the security checkpoint, Lisa stopped. She had never gone through a metal detector with a pistol before. Was she supposed to give it to one of them? Walk through with it? Lima stopped and watched her expectantly, a small grin on his face. 

That meant he thought she would be able to handle it. She'd learned to profile him a bit herself. She flagged down one of the airport security personnel. 

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm Agent Starling, and this is Agent Lima. We're with the FBI." She flashed her ID. 

The man in the security uniform nodded and crossed his arms. "What do you need, Agent Starling?"

"Well," she said, "we're armed and I don't know – I mean, I need to know what we have to do to get through this checkpoint." 

He nodded again. "Do you have your carry forms? The ones they gave you at the ticketing counter?" 

She handed him the pieces of paper they needed. 

"Unload your weapons, please, and hand them to me." 

Lisa felt a bit embarrassed. She envisioned a panic. But she took her Glock out and carefully pointed the muzzle at the floor. Then she booted the clip. She racked the slide to show the chamber was empty and handed it to him. Ralph Lima nodded and did the same. She walked through the metal detector. 

_BEEEEEEEEP. _

The guard took out the wand. "Forget something?" he asked. 

Lisa reached around and felt it. There, the extra clips on her belt. She handed them to the guard and blushed furiously. 

A passing matron gave her a look of astonishment. As she walked by, Lisa heard her tones of shock and anger. 

"Can you imagine it, Harold? That young girl was armed! She had a gun!" 

Lisa's cheeks flushed red. _Well, now you know even FBI agents get embarrassed. _

"I'm with the FBI, ma'am," she said as officially as she could, her hands still full of clips and handcuffs. 

Ralph Lima seemed to think it was all very amusing. He, too, duly handed over his equipment for inspection. Finally, the security guards pronounced them fit to enter the boarding area. Lisa jammed her gun back into its holster, her cheeks still red. 

"Did that embarrass you?" Lima grinned. 

"If I'd known it was going to be this much damn trouble I'd have left the gun at home," Lisa grumbled. 

"You embarrass easily," Lima said, his head tilted. "This indicates that you're not comfortable rocking the boat, or drawing undue attention to yourself, which is probably caused by,--" 

Lisa pointed at him. She liked Lima, but she was becoming steadily more aware that behind the grandfatherly blue eyes lurked a very sharp mind. She had no doubt that he could have made an excellent Dr. Lecter, had he wanted to. 

"Oh no. Don't you profile _me_, Agent Lima," she snapped. "We have work to do." 

"You look like my daughter when you do that," he observed. "Are you going to ask for the car keys?"

She put her hands on her hips before realizing that was exactly what he wanted. He grinned down at her. Instead, Lisa put her hands in her pockets, composed herself, and said sweetly, "Oh, I didn't know you had a daughter." 

"Yup. She's about your age." 

"So, obviously, your volunteering to do this with me indicates that you don't feel close to your daughter, and are obviously trying to compensate for that using me as a substitute for your daughter." 

"Touche," he grinned. 

"Now tell me what DeGraff's problem is," she said. 

Lima's pleasant demeanor collapsed. "Peter DeGraff," he admitted, "does not think women should be in the FBI." 

"I noticed that," Lisa said bitterly. 

"He's not all bad, though. He's a good profiler, he's caught a few UNSUBs himself. He just…he knows all the horrible things we see and thinks women should be protected from that."

"That doesn't excuse him," she pointed out. "There are laws about that sort of thing." 

Lima shrugged. "No, it doesn't. But there are always going to be people like him in life. If he crosses the line, take it up with Quincy. Quincy will set him straight. Just try to keep from fighting him." He shrugged again. "Maybe we'll come up with something good in New York." 

The flight had been uneventful. The New York field office had lent them a car, and they went from salon to salon, distributing Susana's picture. Lisa thought these places were awfully highbrow: they all seemed to have fancy wood trim and Muzak playing faintly in the halls. They all reeked of chemicals. Lisa wondered why anyone in their right mind would pay to sit in all those chemical fumes. The counter people were routinely well dressed and polite, but the actual nail technicians seemed scared of her badge and gun. Lisa supposed that their work papers would not hold up to close scrutiny. 

On the third one, they hit paydirt. Lisa showed her ID and gave the woman behind the counter Susana's picture. The woman looked at it, frowned, and nodded. 

"Why, yes," she said calmly. "I remember those eyes. Red eyes, so very rare. She was in a few days ago for her nails. Monday, I think." That would have been the day after Ray Herman's murder. 

"Did she sign in? Do you have a book?" 

"Of course," the woman said. She took out a large leather binder and flipped through the pages slowly. There it was, in black and white: _Susana Alvarez_, written in the woman's flowing script. 

"Can we take this?" Lisa asked. 

"If you'd like." The woman opened the binder and took out the page. Lisa took it and slid it into an evidence bag. 

"If you'd like, Officer Starling, we could do your nails now," the woman offered. "We have such respect for the officers of the law." 

Lisa smiled tightly and shook her head. "Some other time," she said diplomatically. "Thank you for your help." 

On the way out, she shook the evidence bag. "She's using her own name," she said. 

"Probably thought it didn't matter. It's a nail salon." 

"Means we have a week and a half at least before she gets her nails done again," Lisa said. "God, I can't believe I'm saying this. Lisa Starling, nail detective." 

"We ought to see if they'll let someone work undercover. You any good at nails?" Ralph Lima grinned. 

"No, and I doubt she'll be back there. She'll leave the city." 

Next, they checked the hotels. Lisa believed that her cousin would insist on five-star hotels, and she was right. The Four Seasons hotel, on West 57th st, had a listing for a 'Susana Fell'. _Cute, Susana, _Lisa thought. She was used to big-city traffic from Washington and fell neatly into New York's traffic patterns. Which mostly meant speeding, honking, and screaming at other drivers. And that was fine. Lisa was a Starling, after all. Ralph Lima blanched as she slewed the car to the right and stopped at the hotel. 

"Please," he said half-jokingly. "I have a grandson." 

The hotel was certainly grand enough, Lisa thought. The foyer was over 33 feet high, pillared, and very majestic. The concierge was most helpful when Lisa showed him her ID and asked about Susana Fell. Lisa immediately asked what room she had been in. 

"Why, room 472, Agent Starling. But--" the concierge said. His hair was slicked back with some sort of gel. It looked like it might turn back bullets. 

Lisa immediately began fumbling for her phone. "We'll need to clear the area," she said authoritatively. "We'll need a SWAT or HRT team in here to bring her down." Ralph nodded and took out his own. 

"Agent Starling," the concierge said again, attempting to politely intercede. 

"Move all guests away from that room," she ordered. "Move them all to other floors. It could get ugly." 

"But Agent Starling," the concierge said calmly, "Miss Fell is no longer a guest here. She checked out two hours ago." 

Lisa's face fell. Two hours? So goddam close….

"Let me see her room, then," she ordered. 

"Of course, ma'am. I'll escort you." 

The room was large and possessed very modern furnishings. Pushbutton everything, Lisa thought. Pushbutton controls to pull down the blinds and raise the curtains. The concierge seemed embarrassed that the bed was unmade. 

"Housekeeping hasn't been in here yet," he said apologetically. "I'll just,--" 

"No, you will _not_," Lisa said firmly. "We need to have Forensics in here. No one else gets in this room. Oh, and we'll need hair samples from you to exclude you."

She hauled out her phone and called the New York field office to have a forensics team sent out. 

Ralph Lima seemed amused. She shooed the concierge out the door and told him to wait there until the forensics team arrived. She tilted her head at Lima and looked at him seriously. 

"What's so funny?" she demanded. 

"Well,…" he paused. "You're so different out in the field." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, in the meetings, you're this agreeable little don't-rock-the-boat thing, and out here, you're being so in charge and bossy." 

"We have a job to do," she said abruptly. "How about you help out instead of sitting there grinning at me?" 

"Yes, Chief," he said, and took out two sets of latex gloves. He put on one pair and offered her the other. She slipped them on. They were big, but they would do. On the pillow, she found several brown hairs and carefully put them into a plastic bag. The bathroom yielded little of interest, but once forensics was here and they were able to fingerprint the place, Lisa was sure something would turn up. It wouldn't surprise her if Susana left her another love note.

She felt good. They had tracked the monster to her den. The next question was where she was going next. 

Her phone bleeped on her belt again. Lisa grabbed it and pressed TALK. 

"Agent Starling," she said importantly. Maybe it was the forensics team. Or Quincy. 

It was neither. 

"Cousin Lisa! Well, how _are _you?" The voice was female and spoke with a West Virginia accent much like her own. 

Lisa's jaw dropped. Her heart began to pound. 

"Susana?" she asked. 

"The same," Susana Alvarez Lecter said. 

"Where are you?" 

"The same as you. The Big Apple. They call Buenos Aires the Big Apple too, did you know that?" 

"Susana, tell me where you are," Lisa managed. 

The accent came back on with the efficiency of a light switch. The annoying thing about it was that Susana's West Virginia accent was neither overdone nor outright mocking. It simply sounded as if she had come from the next town over. 

"Well, I declare, Cousin Lisa. You done and gone lost all your manners since you moved to the big city. Speaking of which, how do you like New York? Much bigger than anything you'll find in North Armpit, West Vir-gin-nigh-ay." 

"It's great," Lisa said. "Why not get together with me, Susana? There are people here who'd love to talk to you." 

A bitter laugh came through the line. "You mean the FBI?" She pronounced the last letter _Ah_. "I'm afraid I'll have to say no to that, Cousin Lisa Lee. The FBI ain't too neighborly. I don't take kindly to people with handcuffs. Speaking of which, have you met former Chief Mapp? She's a mite ticked off at me." Incredibly, Susana giggled. 

"I spoke with Chief Mapp a few days ago, yes," Lisa said. "Why?" 

"You ought to talk to her again," Susana said. "I'd do it myself, but we ain't talking right now. I'll see you sometime, though. Drop by your apartment, maybe? Chin-wag a little?" 

The thought that a dangerous killer knew her address occurred to Lisa, and she gripped her gun in its holster firmly. "Susana," she said. "You think you're funny, but I'm gonna get you." 

"Why Cousin Lisa Lee, ain't you got no manners? You think you're better than folks? I tell you true, that's why I done and got out of the city." A cold chuckle escaped the speaker. 

"How was your nail job, Susana?" Lisa said. "Your nail job at LaChina Nail Salon? The one on 59th street? And what did you think of the Four Seasons?" 

"You done gone and found out about that, Cousin Lisa Lee? Well, I declare. You are a real honest-to-goodness _dee-_tective. Like on _tee-_vee. I bet your daddy the hog feed salesman would be proud. Well, if he hadn't dropped dead in bed with a hooker, that is."

Lisa's face flushed. "Shut up about my father. You're hardly one to talk." 

"_My _daddy didn't stay out all night at the bars. Nor hit my momma. Nor climb in bed with me. But then again, we ain't from West Virginia, now, are we?" 

The last accusation was not true, but the first two were. Lisa gripped the phone tighter, as if squeezing the innocent piece of electronics would stop Susana. 

"_Shut up _about my father, I said," she said dangerously. 

"Your pappy? I wasn't talking about your pappy, Lisa." The faux accent turned off again. "I was talking about my own. Really, Cousin Lisa. You're awfully sensitive." 

"So what do you want?" Lisa asked. "To torture me? Brag? You're not as good as you think and I'm not as dumb as you think." 

"Never said you were," Susana said airily. "Master's degree in psych from U of Virginia, not too shabby. But, dear Cousin Lisa, you're not going to catch me."

"Care to bet on that? We _Starlin's_ can be awful persistent, you know." 

"Really, Cousin Lisa? You think you can catch me?" 

"Like a bluetick hound after a fox in the henhouse," Lisa said, a tight grin on her face. Two could play at this game. "I'll getcha, Cousin Sue. Come hell or high water, I'll getcha." 

Susana sounded surprised. "A fox. I rather like that. You know, a female fox is called a vixen." 

"Thank you ever so much for the animal husbandry lesson, Cousin Sue." 

"I've been a regular vixen to former Section Chief Mapp, I must say. Call her. Call her and find out, if'n you please. At the least, you'll enjoy Roland's view." 

A beep came from the phone. Lisa pulled it away from her face and noticed that the call timer had stopped counting. Susana had hung up. 

"Susana?" Lisa asked again, just to make sure. 

The phone beeped again. Lisa pressed TALK again and pressed the phone to her ear. 

"Why, Susana, I wasn't finished," she said sarcastically. 

The voice that boomed in her ear was not Susana's. It was male and much older. 

"What are you talking about, Starling? This is Quincy. We just got a call from NYPD. I need you to get your ass down to 1570 W. 32nd st. Looks like our Susie has struck again. Name of the victim is Roland Mapp. Only thing is, we can't find the body on the premises. Looks like she took it. There's a lot of blood there, so it's legit. Go there and tell me what you see." 

"But we're at her hotel room now. She was at the Four Seasons," Lisa protested. "She checked out two hours ago. There's hairs on her pillow. One of the towels is still kind of damp." 

"Really? Good job, Starling." Lisa took a moment to bathe in the praise. "Let forensics handle the hotel room, though. I want you and Lima there. You know who Roland Mapp is?" 

"I presume he's some relative of former Chief Ardelia Mapp," Lisa said. 

"Very good. How'd you know?" 

"She told me," Lisa admitted. 

…

Susana Alvarez Lecter hung up the pay phone and walked out of the highway rest stop to her car. This time, she did not have a Mustang. That was just as well – between her luggage, the things she had bought in New York City, and Roland Mapp's mutilated corpse, she had far too much stuff to fit in the trunk of a sports car. 

This time around, Susana had a big Chevy Surburban. Although its performance on the road was nothing compared to the Mustang, it had its advantages. She could pop it into four-wheel-drive and make it up a mountain, if she so chose. Plus, she had enough room for whatever she could think to bring along. And Susana had an awfully good imagination. 

She merged back onto I-95 and swiftly discovered that she could make her way along by threatening anything smaller than the Suburban with its great gleaming nose. In the dash lights, she grinned. Ahead, a sign read _I-95 South – WASHINGTON DC AND POINTS SOUTH. _


	6. Symbols

_Author's note: This is a rather long chapter. But once it started it just kept on coming. I decided to continue it through rather than leave it on a cliffie ending. This mindset will not be coming in future chapters, though. This chapter does have a few mind-warping parts, though, so I decided to hold off on the cliffhangers._

Lisa Starling was tired. It had been a long day. But she wasn't tired enough to not be horrified at the sight in front of her. 

The crime scene she had been sent to was largely a bust. They found not a hair nor a fingerprint. Nor a body, for that matter. It was a nice apartment, and Lisa thought the furniture was tasteful. There were pictures of family set up in a tasteful display on the bookcase. This was the apartment of Roland Mapp. 

The only proof they had that anything was even amiss was at the computer desk. The chair was nice – sumptuous black leather, ebony wood armrests. Lisa didn't want to sit on it, though. This was because there was a large groove where someone had driven a meat cleaver into the armrest. The groove was stained with blood. The seat itself was also stained with blood – a fair amount from the likes of it.

"So someone's hand was on there?" Lisa asked, looking at the bloodstain. 

Ralph Lima shook his head. "Fingers. Look at the blood trails. Four separate wounds. Four little blood trails there, see 'em? Somebody chopped off somebody's fingers." 

The cleaver itself was lying on the desk next to the keyboard. It had already been bagged. A bloodstain was visible on its edge. 

"OK, a test for you, Agent Starling. Is that the murder weapon?" 

Lisa studied it carefully. "Might be, but I doubt it," she said carefully. "There's not a lot of blood on the blade. Not compared to what we see on the chair. Plus, Susana knows about evidence. I bet the actual murder weapon is either in the dishwasher or she took it with her." 

"You think?" he challenged.

"She took the body," she pointed out. 

Ralph Lima smiled and nodded. "Good," he said cryptically.

She'd spent the night in New York City. The FBI's hotel-room policy did not allow for anything resembling the sumptuous suite her cousin had enjoyed while she was in the city. Still, the room was comfortable and clean. Lisa didn't need much more than that. 

That morning, Quincy had called. Based on his tone of voice, Lisa had thought Susana had struck again. And she had. Well, sort of. 

"I need you and Lima to catch a flight out to Wheeling," Quincy had told her. "Tickets are already reserved for you. Get out there." 

"Wheeling? Wheeling, West Virginia?" 

"Yes," Quincy said. "The local boys will pick you up from there. The rest of the team will be out there shortly. Let forensics handle New York. We think Susana has left." 

_I said that two days ago_, Lisa Starling thought, but did not say it. 

"Where are we going?" Lisa asked. 

"Small town. Beaumont, it's called. A few miles from Menatchie."

The bottom of Lisa' stomach tumbled out. Her fingers tightened on the phone. She scowled. 

"Beaumont?" she asked. 

"Yes. Beaumont. Get a move on, Starling. I'll fill you in when you get here." 

The flight to Wheeling was bumpy and unpleasant. The plane was much smaller. From the size of the seats, Lisa guessed that the airline must cater to midgets. She was offered a cup of lousy coffee and a package of crackers, which she took. As the small turboprop began its descent into Wheeling's airport, Lisa glared at the landscape below her. 

West Virginia, for Lisa, was a bunch of vaguely unpleasant memories and distastefulness. She had heard the jokes: West Virginia and backwardness, West Virginia and bumpkins, West Virginia and incest. Not much of it was true, but enough of it was to hurt.

Susana Alvarez Lecter's memories of her childhood involved money and two loving parents. Lisa Starling's involved a father who seemed impossible to please, a man embittered by his station in life as a feed salesman. There was never enough money. Bill collectors called constantly. Her father turned to the bottle, as many men do, and when he came home, he was often violent. He'd never actually hit Lisa, but he had not scrupled at hitting her mother. They had lived in Beaumont. Her uncle had lived there many years ago. Now he rested in the cemetery there.

As the FBI agent peered out the window, the frightened six-year-old within screamed _I dowanna go back there! I dowanna! _The long-buried memories of hearing her parents argue, then the sounds of smacks and screams, arose. Her father, leaning over her bed in a beery haze: _Honey, Mommy 'n daddy were just having a little argument, that's all. _ His big hand clapping her on the back in a drunken attempt to comfort and stinging instead. 

Her knuckles tightened on the scarred aluminum armrest. 

"You OK?" Ralph Lima said. 

"Yeah," Lisa sighed. "It's…my first time back here in years." 

"Not easy to go home," Lima said. 

Lisa shook her head. She had left West Virginia to attend the University of Virginia on full scholarship. She had avoided returning whenever she could, only responding to her mother's pleas when guilt absolutely forced her to. 

_Goddam you, Susana. Goddam you for making me come back to this Godforsaken hunk of nowhere. _

The Wheeling airport was more modern than she would have thought, thanks to some federal help. At the gate, they saw two local officers waiting there. The local boys seemed to recognize them right off the bat. It was like dogs, or something, Lisa thought. Cops could recognize other cops even in plainclothes. It was as if they could smell the scent of cordite and badges. 

One of the officers ambled up to them slowly. 

"Are yew-all the FBI agents?" he asked. 

"Yes, we are," Lisa said in as crisp and Northeastern an accent as she could manage. She flashed her ID. "I'm Special Agent Starling, this is Agent Lima." 

The cop tipped his head. "Good morning to you, Agent Starling. Say, are you Lisa Starling?" 

_Crap. _

She read his nameplate. T. Anderson. "Yes, I am," she said, lapsing into her old accent in defeat. "You're Teddy Anderson, aincha? Mark Anderson's boy?" 

"Yes, I am," he acknowledged. He had been two years ahead of her in school. At one time, she'd had a schoolgirl crush on him. Now she was the FBI agent and he was the local-yokel cop. 

__

Politely, he carried her bag at the baggage claim, even though it contained very little. At the door was parked a gleaming white police cruiser. It was surprisingly new-looking. Along the side was emblazoned the words _TOWN OF BEAUMONT POLICE DEPARTMENT. Probably brought their best cruiser to show off for the FBI,_ Lisa thought.

"PO-leece," Lisa said under her breath. 

"Excuse me, Miss Starling?" Officer Anderson asked. 

"Nothing," she brushed it off. "Long flight. Jet lag." She hadn't taken a jet into Wheeling, just a dinky little turboprop, but Officer Ted Anderson of the Town of Beaumont PO-leece Department did not need to know that. 

In the car, Lisa accepted a place in the back for her partner's sake. The metal barrier pressed into her knees, but it wasn't too bad. It was dented where a prior passenger had given it an angry kick. 

"It's a long drive back to Beaumont," Officer Anderson said from behind the wheel. "Y'all like country music?" He gestured to the radio. 

Lisa hated country music. If it came down to spending the next two hours listening to men in cowboy hats wail about how they had lost their women and their trucks and presenting herself to her cousin and inviting her to remove whatever organ she might want without anesthesia, Lisa would have had to sit down and think about it. 

"Sure, why not," she said, not wanting to hurt the feelings of the local boys. They actually seemed to look up to the FBI. The first jangling chords of guitar and banjo came over the radio. Lisa sighed and accepted her fate. 

"It's a strange crime scene," Officer Anderson said. "We don't get a lot of this in Beaumont." 

Lisa's head snapped up. "What is it?" 

He turned down the radio to speak more. Had there not been a metal grille separating them, Lisa would have kissed him for that. 

"Well, it's a black fella, strung up in the graveyard. Real horrible to look at. Some people." He shook his head. 

"Is it a hate crime, you think?" Ralph Lima asked from the front seat. 

"Naw. Beaumont's mostly white and Menatchie's mostly black, but there ain't too much hate crime around here. Hasn't been for years. Most people get along fine, white or black. Plus, we've seen some Klan type crimes, and it ain't Klan." He turned and looked at Agent Lima as if to suggest that he wasn't stupid. 

"It looks kinda like whoever did it was _trying_ to make it look like a hate crime, but it don't match up exactly. Klan and all them white-pride boys wouldn't hang him up in a white graveyard. Woulda been somewhere more public. Plus, they chopped off his fingers. If it was Klan, they mighta cut somethin' off, but it wouldn't be fingers." 

"Good thinking," Lisa Starling said. She tilted her head as she listened, unconsciously mimicking her cousin. She would want to see the crime scene herself, though. "Have you ID'ed the body?" 

"Not officially. The police chief over in Menatchie…," Officer Anderson sighed. "The police chief over in Menatchie heard the squawk on the radio. We don't hide much from each other, you know. She got out there and said it was her nephew. Asked us to call the FBI and not to touch nothing. She's pretty broken up, you know. It was our scene cause it's our jurisdiction, but we decided to do what she asked." 

On the highway, Officer Anderson stepped on the gas and got the cruiser going. He waved at a few state police boys on the way. A few of them radioed him to ask if he was being pursued by bats or something. 

After a long, interminable drive on the highway and then the endless two-lane roads Lisa remembered from her childhood, the area turned less rural. A sign up ahead beckoned them, stating _WELCOME TO BEAUMONT. A NICE PLACE TO LIVE. _

A nice place to leave, Lisa Starling thought. After all, she had done just that. 

The graveyard was not far away. Nothing was far away in this little town. There were plenty of cruisers parked around the graveyard, their lights going. The other two Beaumont cars, and one Menatchie prowl car parked companionably by them. There were also several unmarked cars with Washington plates. Lisa did not need an engraved invitation to tell her these were FBI. 

Officer Anderson scurried out of the car to open her door. This was more necessary than courtesy, as the back doors of police cruisers do not have interior door handles. Lisa's legs screamed as she stretched from the long ride. Then she walked up into the cemetery, looking for the crowd. 

She found it. Uniformed cops and FBI agents in plainclothes milled around a particular area. As Lisa moved closer, they let her past. She heard them muttering. 

_Goddam worst crime ever out here—_

Hope they catch the sick fuck—

Get him down from there, let's get fingerprints—

When she made it to the inner edge of the crowd and had a good look, she gasped in horror. 

This part of the cemetery sported a large white statue of Jesus. Jesus held out his arms as if to bless anyone in the cemetery who passed by. Under him, the beaten body of Roland Mapp also held out his arms. He was tied to the statue with thick ropes carefully tied to the concrete arms and body of the statue. His head slumped forward. His face had been carefully removed to expose the skull. One eye stared at nothing. The other was missing, carefully scraped from its socket. A long slash in his throat was shockingly pink against his dark skin. Dried blood crusted at its edges.

Lisa took a deep breath. She hoped for his sake that the mutilations had been done postmortem. The FBI agent part of her was already tracking that. There wasn't much blood, so it probably was. 

In Roland Mapp's left hand – the only hand that still possessed fingers – was a signpost. The sign atop it read _Welcome to Menatchie – where life is worth living_. On his chest was a piece of paper. It was held there by a long, thin filet knife carefully driven into his chest. Lisa ignored her nausea and leaned in close to look at it. 

It was a newspaper article from the _Beaumont-Menatchie Post_, dated from two years ago. _Menatchie gets new police chief_, it read. Under it was a blurry picture which had not survived the photocopying process well. It showed a black woman with her hand raised in the air, taking the oath of office. The article stated that Ardelia Mapp, former head of Behavioral Science at the FBI, had taken the post as Menatchie's police chief. 

Lisa turned away and saw a black woman in a different uniform than the other uniforms looking at the corpse with teary eyes. Her nameplate read _A. MAPP. _ She walked over to the woman and introduced herself. 

"Hi," she said softly. "I'm Special Agent Starling." 

The black woman's eyes focused on her and a fresh wave of grief washed over her face. 

"Yes, we spoke on the phone," Ardelia Mapp said tonelessly. 

"I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances," Lisa said. 

"Thank you." After a few minutes, Ardelia spoke again. 

"She did this, you know." 

"Susana Alvarez?" 

"Yes," Ardelia said. "Find her, Starling. Find her and give her to me. I'll do what is necessary." 

"We'll find her," Lisa said. "I promise. We'll bring her to justice." 

"Justice." Ardelia snorted bitterly. "Bring her to _me_, Starling. That little bitch will not take anything more from me."

"I can't promise that," Lisa said softly. "You know that. We have a duty." 

Ardelia's eyes turned cold and hard. "Then you're no damn use to me, Agent Starling." She turned away. 

Lisa sat there for a moment, not sure what to do. Different people dealt with grief differently. She could not hold Ardelia's behavior against her, not after the atrocity she had just witnessed. 

Chief Quincy walked over to her and took her arm. Ardelia met her successor's eyes with a look that bespoke no friendliness or courtesy, simply noting his presence. He guided Lisa to a spot several feet away. 

"You think this is Lecter?" 

"Probably," Lisa said. "It's supposed to look like a hate crime. But there's nothing racial to it. Susana Alvarez hasn't ever showed any racist tendencies. This was a hate crime against Mapp, not blacks." 

"Good," he said calmly. God, how could he seem so nonchalant with the horror of Roland Mapp not ten feet away? "The profilers agree with you. It's her, all right. Mapp said she did it on videoconference with her there." 

"Excuse me," Lisa said. "I need to check something." 

She walked over a few rows of graves, until she found what she was looking for. A large gray stone that Ardelia Mapp had bought and paid for. JOHN STARLING, KILLED IN THE LINE OF DUTY. She stared at her uncle's grave for several moments. Tomorrow would be the anniversary of his death.

Planted neatly on it was a fresh, new bouquet of flowers.

_Damn you, Susana. I was right._

…

Susana Alvarez was in tears. 

Her wrists were bound behind her back and she was blindfolded. Her unseen captor was busy banging around doing something else. She was sitting on the floor, jammed into the corner. She could hear another girl next to her crying herself. 

Susana did not try to speak. Her captor had warned her not to. She heard the clatter of metal, then the squeak of a pulley. Footsteps came towards her slowly. She cringed. 

The blindfold came off roughly and Susana saw her captor for the first time since she had been captured outside the Ballston Common Mall. 

Her captor was a young woman like herself. She was very pretty, but there was a cruel look on her face. Her eyes drew Susana's attention like a snake's draw a mouse. Red eyes, with no mercy in them at all. Her face was the face of a devil – a _diabla_, as Susana's grandmother might have put it. 

"Well, hello there," _la diabla _said. "Don't scream, or I'll have to hurt you." 

"P-please…doan hurt me," Susana whimpered. Her Mexican accent was obvious. 

_La diabla _tilted her head and stared at Susana. "_Hablas español?_" Her accent sounded Argentinian. 

"_Sí," _Susana whimpered. "_Por favor, no me mata, no me mata." _

"I'm not going to kill you," _la diabla _said. "Tell me, though. Your name is Susana Alvarez?" 

Susana nodded. 

"Well, what do you know," _la diabla _mused. "That's my name, too. Now look, I'll tell you what. We don't want to confuse Lisa here, so we'll just call you Susie." She indicated the blond girl similarly bound on the floor next to Susie. She flipped off the girl's blindfold. 

"Hi, Lisa," Susana Alvarez Lecter said sarcastically. "This is Susie, next to you. I'm Susana. We've got the same name, so Susie gets the diminutive." She nodded at the weeping blonde. 

"Now," Susana continued. "Make very very sure you get it straight. I absolutely despise being called Susie. I didn't even let my mother call me Susie when I was a kid. So: she's Susie, and I'm Susana. Got it?" 

The blonde nodded through her tears. 

"Now make extra sure you get it straight, Lisa," Susana said calmly. She reached behind her and pulled her Harpy off the waistband of her expensive slacks. It snapped out. Both bound girls screamed in unison and cringed. 

"I'm not gonna hurt you, either of you. But if you call me Susie, Lisa…and that goes for you too, Susie, then I'll be upset with you. And when I'm upset with you, I only tend to feel better about you once I've cut something off you. Got it?" 

Both girls gave her big horse nods that indicated sheer terror more than understanding. 

"Great. I have a little performance piece here that you're going to help me with." 

Susana Alvarez Lecter was pleased with herself. The abandoned building just outside Baltimore was just what she wanted. She had figured it wouldn't be terribly hard to find a girl with her name and had been correct. Then it had simply been a matter of finding the girl and getting her. With the aid of a 500,000 volt stun gun, it was as easy as carting Roland Mapp's corpse down from New York City had been. She had told passersby that her sister was epileptic and she was getting her her medication. Amazing, what some people would believe.

Finding a stand-in for her cousin had been harder. Susana had been forced to settle for a blonde sixteen-year-old named Lisa Starklock. The name discrepancy displeased her, but after all, it wasn't like there were too many Starlings around. Still, it would get the point across, and in a most artful way. Plus, Lisa sported the mile-thick West Virginia accent Susana liked to torment her cousin with. The kid had been baby-sitting when Susana knocked on her door and pretended to be a census taker. She hadn't even needed the stun gun. The sight of the knife had been enough. Susana had bound her, blindfolded her, and frogmarched her out to the Suburban, a vehicle excellent for transporting bound prisoners. 

She hoped her cousin would not be so easy. Otherwise, this would be terribly boring. 

Susana had set up a mildly complicated system of two counterweights attached to a long rope which ran through a pulley. The pulley was attached to the doorknob. She opened the door experimentally and watched the two counterweights bob up and down. She frowned thoughtfully. It ought to be enough weight, the blows should be heavy enough. 

She grabbed up the weeping blonde girl and walked her over to one of the counterweights. The girl simply looked at her with big tearful blue eyes and said nothing. Susana made her lie down on the wooden pallet she had dragged in from the loading bay and glanced over at her second prisoner. 

"Don't get any ideas, now, Susie," she chuckled. "I'll get upset with you if you do." 

"No," Susie whimpered from her corner. "No, please, _señora_, I'm being good." 

"_Buena, chica._" 

Susana took a coil of rope and carefully bound Lisa Starklock face up on the pallet. Wrists, ankles, waist, knees, above and below her breasts. Lisa Starklock was not going anywhere soon. Satisfied, she walked back for Susie and marched her over to the pallet. 

Both girls were terrorized and easy to control. She forced her namesake to straddle Lisa and bound her ankles to the pallet. She tied a rope around Susie's neck and pulled it back, forcing her to arch her back. All the while, Susie's arms lay limply on either side of Lisa's head. 

Next, Susana took a contraption she had made herself from a hardware store. It consisted of two three-foot-long pipes mounted into a connector that held them at a ninety-degree angle. She held this against Susie's arms and used duct tape to bind her arms to the pipes. She was liberal with the duct tape. Her father had told her about it once. It made a most effective restraint, as the late Paul Krendler could have attested. 

She attached the connector of the pipes to the rope and stood back to view her work. Susie loomed over Lisa on the pallet, her arms up in the air as if to deliver the killing blow. Susana nodded, pleased with herself. This would be a hell of an effect. Too bad she wouldn't be able to see it. 

She unwrapped a second Harpy she had bought at a knife shop in Baltimore. Both girls began to scream. 

_"Cállense," _Susana ordered. 

Susie quieted. Lisa did not. Susana squatted and grabbed the girl's cheek, twisting it painfully. 

"Be quiet, I said. You really ought to learn another language, Lisa. Don't be such a peasant." 

"I'm sorry," the hysterical girl wept. "Please, I just, I don't want to die, please don't kill me, I'm only sixteen." 

"I'm not going to kill you," Susana said dispassionately. "And when I was your age I almost got my face cut off by a hairy psycho janitor. Don't be such a baby." 

She seized Susie's right hand and put the Harpy in it, point down. Susie did not want to hold it at first, but did so when she saw her captor grow displeased. Susana carefully mummified her captive's hand in duct tape. First the right one, so that Susie could not discard the knife. Then she added the left hand for more stability. 

She was pleased with the result. Whoever opened the door would trigger off a rather unpleasant stabbing scene. 

"Don't wiggle too much, either of you," she warned. "If that rope slips…," she trailed off. They all knew what would happen. 

"One more thing," she ordered and walked back to the table. When she returned, she had a small plastic case in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. She reached for Susie's eye and held it open with her thumb and forefinger. Susie whimpered and turned her face away. 

"Open them or lose them," Susana said peremptorily. 

Her face drawing down into a mask of misery, Susie opened. 

Susana carefully slipped the contact lenses in. She was mildly miffed that red contact lenses were only available in costume shops. However, it had the desired effect. Susie now stared up at her with eyes as maroon as her own. The shade wasn't exactly right, but it was close. 

Last touch. Susana opened the box and removed the head inside. Both girls screamed shrilly. Annoyed, Susana slapped Susie's face. 

"It's just a Styrofoam head, you morons," she said disapprovingly. She took the brown wig and carefully arranged it on Susie's head, covering her own black hair. She showed them the white Styrofoam head on which the wig had rested. 

Both girls, convinced they would die, looked up at her fearfully. Susana clapped her hands like a scoutmaster. 

"Okey dokey," she said breezily. "Now, if you're very good girls, you might live through this. If you're bad girls, well, then, all bets are off." 

"I'm going to leave the room now, but I _will _be in the area. Now, I'm sure your mothers taught you that ladies don't scream and ladies don't yell. So you make sure to act ladylike, now." She waggled a perfectly manicured nail at her captives. 

"Now I'm sure you noticed that dear little Susie has the same name as me. We certainly don't want little Lisa to feel left out, so there will be an awfully nice lady from the FBI coming along with the same name as Lisa. Well, close enough, anyway. Now when the nice lady comes in, your job is to convince her _not _to shoot. Susie, I expect to hear you saying 'Pleese doan shoot me, _señora _Aif Bee Hai _Agente_, and Lisa, you make sure to say 'She ain't no bad'un, so you put that gun down _raht now_.'" Both accents were reproduced perfectly. 

"You understand?" 

Horse nods. 

"You sure?" 

"Yes," wept Susie.

"Now, Susie," Susana continued, "I want you to tell me your email address and password. You've got AOL Earthlink, right?" 

"Yes," Susie whimpered.

"Good girl. The way America keeps in touch, don't you know. Now: your username and password, please." 

Through her tears, Susie managed, "It's Salavarez216@aolearthlink.com…and the password is Alberto." She sniffled. "That's our dog's name. Please, don't hurt me." 

"Good," Susana said, and walked to a nearby window. She opened it and slipped out easily. In the Suburban, she connected her laptop to her cell phone and dialed a number.

…

Lisa Starling was reviewing the lab reports from Susana's latest atrocity. Her cubicle was quiet. Was Ardelia Mapp Susana's next target? It was hard to say: this go-round, Susana seemed to be killing whoever she wanted. 

The familiar double tone of her computer informed her she had new email. Lisa waved her mouse to turn off the screen saver and maximized her Outlook 2025. What she saw made her gasp. 

__

From: Susana Alvarez (_Salvarez216@aolearthlink.com__)_

To: Lisa Starling (_lstarling@fbi.gov__) _

Subject: Hello, Cousin Lisa!

Howdy, Cousin Lisa! 

I declare, this modern technology is just great. Keep in touch wherever you go. My father never got into email – he liked the old ways, real paper letters and such. 

Tell me, if you will. Look inside yourself. Not the FBI, yourself. Starling. 

What do you see, when you look attt yourself? Do you ever think about what would happen if you were out of the FBI? If you lost 'the G', as Barney would refer to you? Think about it, k? 

In the city my father practiced in, there are two hostages. Figure out where they are, and you may yet save their lives. Knock, knock, Lisa. We're waiting for you. 

Ta ta, 

S.A.L.

Lisa stood up, blinking at her flat-screen monitor. For a moment she could do nothing. Two hostages? What the hell? 

Then she knew what to do. She clicked 'print' to print out a copy of the message. Then she ran for Chief Quincy's office. He looked up at her, annoyed. He was on the phone. 

"What do you want?" he asked. 

Lisa waved the paper. "We need to get everyone together. Susana sent me an email."

He took it and scanned it. Then he handed it back to her. "Get with Lima," he ordered. 

"Sir, I think--," Lisa started. 

"I said get _with _him, not give it to him. You'll work with him." 

Two hours later, after much research, everyone was gathered in the meeting room. Lisa was grimly pleased. She had engaged in a rough brainstorming session with Ralph Lima. Although they had both screamed at each other at times, she believed they had the answer. The email Susana had sent was projected on the whiteboard. 

"I told you this was a bad idea," DeGraff said. "Today she's emailing Starling. Tomorrow, she'll be gunning for her." 

Lisa scowled. "I can handle myself. Let's look at the message." 

"Maybe it's just nonsense," he said. 

"I doubt it. Look." Lisa rose and walked over to the whiteboard. 

"The email address does check back to a Susana Alvarez, but not _our _Susana Alvarez. The account has been around for years. According to AOL Earthlink's records, it was dialed in from a satellite phone. So she's portable. The number checks out to a company that rents sat phones to travelers. Rented a week ago, one month rental." 

"The reference to the city her father practiced in is easy. Susana thinks we're all as dumb as a box of frogs, so she's going to give us that one." Next to the letter, she printed the word BALTIMORE. 

"The reference to me is too hokey for Susana. She's referring to the Buffalo Bill case in which her parents met." 

Chief Quincy, who had been with the FBI then, asked, "Yourself Storage?" 

Lisa shook her head. "No, it's a pun on my name. Agent Lima and I went over it." Under BALTIMORE, she printed STARLING. 

"She's messing with your head," DeGraff said. 

"No, she isn't, sir. Look." She pointed to the email's text. 

"The at has three t's instead of one. That's not an error. Susana knows how to spell. It could be just a sticky key on her keyboard, but nowhere else in the message is the 'T' repeated. It's part of it." She printed ATTT. Next to it, she wrote ADD T. 

"Add a T," she said unnecessarily. 

"The reference to 'lose the G' has nothing to do with Barney. She's just trying to camouflage it and remind us what she did before. Likewise, the 'k' is not OK like it usually would be. Susana would never use that kind of slang, her father taught her better. She's telling us what letter goes in place of the G." 

Lisa erased the letter G from her name and replaced it with a letter K. In between the R and L of her name, she managed to sneak in an extra T. 

STARTLINK. 

She turned back to face the men at the table and beamed with accomplishment. 

"I checked, and there's an old DSL company in Baltimore that went bankrupt years ago. StartLink DSL, it was called. Their building is still abandoned. The Knock, knock reference probably means that whatever she wants us to find is in their NOC – their Network Operations Center." 

"What does the 'We're waiting for you' mean?" Chief Quincy asked. He seemed interested.

"I don't know, sir," she admitted. 

"This is a load of crap," DeGraff said. "You have no idea if this is right or not--," 

Chief Quincy rubbed his chin thoughfully. 

"Peter, be quiet," he said. "I think she's got it. Brilliant work, Starling." 

"I believe so, sir," she said, and in that moment she would have killed for him. "Agent Lima was part of it too. I couldn't have done it without him." 

"Everyone get their weapons," Quincy ordered. "We're going to check out StartLink DSL." 

…

The FBI agents piled out of the van, their weapons at the ready. They surrounded the old building that had once housed StartLink DSL. Lisa Starling raised her Glock and waited for the battering-ram team to get the door open. She noticed that the electrical power to the building had been restored. Light came from the inside of the building. 

With a bang and a roar, the door fell open. They piled through the doors and quickly covered all positions. There was no place Susana could be that did not have the muzzle of a weapon pointed in that direction. 

Carefully, slowly, the team made its way through the dead building. The ghosts of long-departed desks and chairs made themselves known by the marks they had left in the carpet. In the back of the building was a large gray door. 

On the door was emblazoned the cryptic letters NOC. This was the network operations center. Tucked above the doorknob was a piece of paper. Emblazoned on it was the following message: 

_Susana Alvarez is indeed behind this door. _

But I wouldn't open it if I were you. 

The door-banger team swiftly arranged their battering ram. Lisa took up a position behind them, the muzzle of her Glock pointed beyond the door. Her pulse beat in her ears. But something wasn't right. This was way too easy. 

The agent with the ram raised it to break down the door. Lisa tensed. All of a sudden, her cousin spoke up in her mind. 

_Why, Cousin Lisa, however did you think I got the other Susana Alvarez's email address?_

The agent struck the door with the heavy metal ram. Behind them, Lisa's jaw dropped. A look of fear and surprise came over her face. She meant to scream for them to stop, and had they waited another five seconds she would have. 

But they didn't, and she didn't. The door burst open. The rope tied to the knob slipped off. And the Rube Goldberg contraption Susana had devised began its work. 

It was simple in execution, really. The two counterweights bobbed up and down, each forcing the other up and down. Eventually, it would stop of its own accord as the weights achieved balance. 

Except Susana Alvarez's arms were tied to one of the counterweights. And as it plummeted, it forced her arms down and forced the Harpy into Lisa Starklock's soft, tender stomach. An unwilling cog in her namesake's evil device, she stabbed Lisa Starklock over and over like a homicidal clockwork monkey. 

The team ran in. They heard Lisa Starklock's screams and brought their weapons to bear on Susana Alvarez. They saw her crouched over the other girl, stabbing her over and over. Lisa Starling ran in behind them. 

"Susana, stop! Drop the knife or we'll shoot!" cried an agent. 

"No! Wait! I can't!" the terrified girl cried. 

Lisa saw one of the other agents bringing his pistol up. She looked, saw the rope running across the ceiling, and the heavy weights. Her cousin's plan spelled itself out in her mind. 

"No!" she yelled. 

"Please don't shoot me!" Susana Alvarez begged.

A spurt of flame burst from the agent's pistol. Susana Alvarez screamed. The bullet struck her in the shoulder. The agent had aimed for her head and barely missed. Her arms still worked mechanically, driving the knife into her victim again and again. 

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Lisa Starling screamed. That didn't work. She unwittingly imitated her first cousin's predilection for profanity in stressful situations. "HOLD YOUR GODDAM FIRE, DAMMIT TO HELL!" 

"Put her down," she heard someone else say. "I don't know what's got into Starling, but….," 

Lisa Starling had to act. There was no time. And she would not let the FBI become Susana's unwitting goons. 

She sprinted forward, into the fire zone, where the weapons of her allies would go to bear on her. 

"STARLING, GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE NOW!" she heard behind her. She ignored it. DeGraff's voice floated back bitterly: "Look. Starling's gone fucking crazy. I told you women didn't belong in the FBI. What does she think this is? A Tupperware party?" _Write me up, asshole. I cordially await any Board of Inquiry you care to call. You can explain how you were about to kill the girl Susana Alvarez left for us to find._

Lisa jumped into the air and grabbed the counterweight. She braced her feet on it and held onto the rope. With the weight of her body, the counterweight was much heavier than its mate. It went down and stayed down.

Susana Alvarez's arms went up and stayed up. The bloody Harpy stuck from between the blob of her duct-taped hands. She sobbed with relief. So did both Lisas. 

"FBI," Lisa said. "You're safe." Then she looked at them both, saw the blood, and trembled. 

"Are you all right? Are you alive?" 

"Yes," Susana Alvarez whimpered, although she was swiftly turning pale and going into shock. 

Under her, Lisa Starklock licked dry lips and husked, "Yes, ma'am." 

Both girls were wounded and would need medical attention, probably surgery. But they were _alive. _She'd beaten her cousin this time. She'd _won. _ She glanced over at the wondering eyes of the fire squad. They put aside their weapons, as shamefaced as young boys who have been yelled at by their mothers. 

One of the agents said wonderingly, "That was the goddamest thing I've seen in twenty years. You got balls, Starling." 

Lisa Starling placed her forehead against the rope of the counterweight and felt tears of relief spring to her eyes. 


	7. Lisa in the Spotlight

A few days later, the case broke wide open. 

Lisa had become the Woman of the Hour for her dramatic rescue of Susie Alvarez and Lisa Starklock. Both girls underwent emergency surgery at Maryland-Misericordia. The bullet wound to Susie's shoulder was not serious. It would take some additional surgeries before full mobility in the joint was restored. But she would live. 

Lisa Starklock was in slightly worse condition. Susana had planned her device well, and the stab wounds she had received had caused internal bleeding and damage. But she was young and strong, and she rallied as best she could. A long road of recovery lay ahead from her encounter with Susana Alvarez Lecter, but she would live. 

Lisa Starling was enjoying the moment. An article in the _Tattler_ appeared, raving about how Lisa had 'thrown herself in front of the FBI guns to save the innocents' and 'unraveled the monster's scheme'. To her satisfaction, this article presented her as having a master's degree in psychology and pointed out that she alone had realized that the Susana Alvarez actually in StartLink's NOC had not been the one they sought. 

The _Baltimore Sun _produced an article that was slightly less hysterical in nature but noted her quick thinking and heroism. Lisa cut out both articles and framed them in her cubicle. Most of the team seemed pleased for her. DeGraff, of course, did not, but Lisa did not particularly mind his opinion. His idea had simply popped up Susana's prior location and one nail job. Lisa had done something no one had done before. She had stopped Susana Alvarez Lecter from killing two people whom Susana had intended to kill. 

Still, the symbolism of Susana's act was not lost on her. She was surprised; her profile of Susana had made her think Susana wanted her alive. After all, if she was dead, who would Susana torment? She thought – she _hoped_ – that Susana's intent was to try to frighten her off the case, to make her fear for her own life. 

Lisa Starling had never been one to hide under the table and cry. If Susana believed her to be a shrinking violet, she had another thing coming. She went in early to work and went to the firing range. She was already experienced with guns, but more practice never hurt. After a few hours of blowing satisfyingly small groups of holes in target after target, she went down to the depths of Quantico and found more ways to capture her cousin.

The team had more people canvassing beauty salons in Washington, Wheeling, and Baltimore. Lisa picked up a few of them out of the spirit of teamwork, but she doubted it would turn up much. How often did Susana go, anyway? But, she didn't want the others to think she was getting a swelled head, so she went to the salons on her list, stood in the reek of the acrylic fumes, and gave her card and Susana's picture. 

The frustrating part was that they still had no real idea where Susana was or where she might strike again. Lisa was not sure herself. Susana knew Washington, DC from her prior trip. That was a possibility. Baltimore was, too. Susana had only been in Baltimore briefly, to kidnap Barney, but that _was _the city in which Dr. Lecter had practiced, and Lisa thought that it might appeal to Susana. And there had been a few murders in New York City before Susana moved on. She was fairly sure that Susana would avoid Wheeling, since Wheeling was where she had briefly been held.

_Oh, but are you sure, Lisa? Or is it that **you **don't want it to be Wheeling? _Her cousin's voice was mocking in her mind. _Y'all don't like the idea that ah maht settle down in Wheeling? _

_No, _she thought back. _It's not…that I don't want it to be Wheeling. The evidence is against Wheeling. Baltimore and DC are more her speed._

This internal dialogue went on in her head as she headed down from the range to the subterranean depths of Behavioral Science. She hadn't been able to shoot this morning, so she had gone in the mid-afternoon. The Glock was satisfyingly hot in its holster against her side. She'd have to clean the gun once she got down there. But that was OK. She had a cleaning kit in her desk drawer. 

Down in the gray halls, Lisa headed into her cubicle. She took a moment to observe the two framed newspaper articles with satisfaction. Then she sat down at her desk and began to review the crime scene reports from StartLink DSL. There was another meeting at four o'clock. _How the hell are we supposed to catch her with all these meetings? We need time to profile and investigate, too. _

Her phone rang. She grabbed it. 

"FBI, Agent Starling," she said importantly. Part of her hoped it was the media. Another part of her hoped it was Susana. 

It was neither. 

A young girl's voice, heavy with accent, said, "Hello?" 

"Hello, yes. This is Agent Starling. Can I help you?" 

The voice vacillated for a moment. "Hello. My name…Le Duc Quong. I from Vietnam. I sorry, I no speak English good." 

"I can try and get a Vietnamese speaker for you, if you like," Lisa said patiently. "What did you call for?" 

"I call for…I call for…," the voice seemed unsure. Lisa felt a wave of frustration. _Spit it out already! _

But Le Duc's next words banished the frustration. 

"I call about red eyed lady." 

"Red eyed lady?" Lisa scrabbled for a pen and paper. "Tell me about it," she ordered. 

"I go to work this morning, I see red eyed lady in old building as I go. No one live there. She move in, I think." 

"Go on," Lisa said urgently. 

"When I at work, red eyed lady come in. She break nail. I fix nail for her. She look at me funny." The voice trembled in fear. "She _boucoup_ scary, red eyed lady. She ask me if she see me before. I say no, I afraid." 

"You did right. Go on." 

"I think red eyed lady is American. She talk like one. But she ask me if I foreigner. I say yes. She say she foreigner too." 

"Le Duc, when was this?" 

"This hour ago or so. I see red eyed lady, then I remember. You come into our salon yesterday and give picture. Say red eyed lady dangerous. If we see her call you." 

"We'll protect you. Where is the red eyed lady now, Le Duc?" Lisa's voice was calm and solicitous. 

"I no know." 

"Where is the old building that you saw her in?" 

"It on Bleeker street in Baltimore. But please…," 

"Le Duc, I need to see you right away." 

The woman on the other end of the line panicked. "Noooo! I no see police! Please…I no have papers…I no do anything wrong…I no talk to police." 

_Crap. A hot tip and it's a fucking illegal immigrant. _

"Listen to me," Lisa said sweetly. "Le Duc, if you help the FBI find the red eyed lady, the FBI can help you get a green card. Okay? We can help you. We'll go in front of the judge and say that you helped us and that will help you stay in the country." She was tempted to add that if Le Duc didn't, the FBI would FedEx her ass right back to Vietnam, but she didn't. 

"What is the address, Le Duc?" 

"Fourtee- semny-ni Bleeker. Near my apartment." 

Lisa wrote it down. 

"No police," Le Duc implored. 

"We won't turn you in, Le Duc," Lisa said. 

There was a sudden click as Le Duc hung up. Lisa pressed down the receiver, called down to Central Security, and asked them to send her the recording of the conversation. All telephone calls into the FBI are recorded. Rather than tape, an archaic invention in 2027, they are recorded digitally. A few moments later, Lisa's conversation with Le Duc appeared as an attachment in her inbox. 

Lisa got up, walked over to Quincy's office, and showed him the email. The conversation took place again over the tinny speakers attached to his computer. He nodded. 

"Talk to Baltimore PD," he said. "You're big in the news. See if they'd be willing to send out a cruiser to look it over and come back." 

"Shouldn't we go there?" she queried. 

"Not yet, Starling. _You _came out of StartLink smelling like a rose. The rest of us look kind of stupid, though. I want some sort of corroboration. Make the call. See what they get." 

Lisa went back to her cubicle and picked up her phone. She dialed the main number for the Baltimore Police Department. 

"Baltimore Police Department, Officer Hinkle speaking," came a bored woman's voice. 

"Officer Hinkle? This is Special Agent Lisa Starling of the FBI." 

The bored woman's voice changed immediately. "Are you that FBI agent from the paper?" 

"That's me," Lisa said with some satisfaction. 

"What can I do for you?" Officer Hinkle asked. 

"We have a tip we'd like to check out. But we want to be subtle about it. If you wouldn't mind, we'd like you to send out a cruiser by 1479 Bleeker street in Baltimore and have a look." 

"Is it related to that awful Dr. Lecter? His daughter, I mean?" 

"I'm not at liberty to say," Lisa said. 

"Is she _really_ your cousin?" 

"Her mother is," Lisa said, to shut her up. 

"Now let me see, that address would be handled by…let me see the precinct…," Lisa heard papers flipping. "Let me get you in touch with that precinct." 

There was a click and then dead air. Lisa sighed. Then another voice came on the line. 

"16th Precinct. Sergeant Barlow," a male voice said importantly. 

"Sergeant Barlow, this is Special Agent Starling with the FBI," Lisa said. 

"Oh yeah. Officer Hinkle told me before she put you on the line. What can I do for you, Agent Starling?" 

_Finally, some goddam respect_, Lisa thought. 

"Well, we have a tip we want to check out quietly. Can you send a cruiser to 1479 Bleeker to check it out?"

"I suppose so. Hey, are you the one from the paper? The one who saved those girls?" 

Lisa grinned. "Yes, that's me." 

"Good job. That was some incredible stuff. How'd you know?" 

"I saw the rope. Plus I knew the perp. It had to be a trick." 

"Is this that Susana Lecter chick?" 

"We don't know," Lisa said. She wondered what Susana Alvarez Lecter would do to anyone who called her a chick. It probably would involve a lot of pain. "We're trying to check up on a tip. Now Sergeant, this perp is armed and extremely dangerous. Please, when you send someone out, _don't _have them go inside. We don't want to tip them off and if she saw them, well,...," 

"It wouldn't be good." 

"OK. What do you want them to do, then, Agent Starling?" 

"Check out the outside. See if there are any lights on. See if there are any cars." 

"OK, Starling, I'll dispatch someone out and see what I can find." 

Lisa supplied him with her number and thanked him very much. It was time for the meeting. Lisa scowled. She didn't want to be trapped in a meeting room going over what Susana had already done. But she couldn't get out of it. 

In the meeting, Chief Quincy droned on and on about the Roland Mapp murder and the StartLink stabbings. Lisa jiggled her foot impatiently. She didn't volunteer much. DeGraff was thankfully not present. He was checking something out in Wheeling and not due back until later that night. 

Lisa gave a brief, perfunctory summary of the call she had received. She explained that Le Duc Quong was probably an illegal immigrant and that tracking her down would be tough. After that, she returned to her usual impatient silence. 

_Let me out of this damn meeting, _she thought. _LetmeoutletmeoutLETMEOUT. _

Ralph Lima looked at her from across the table. She gave him a smile that was more of a facial muscle spasm and continued tapping her foot. 

Time passed by interminably. Someone was blabbering about how the StartLink situation meant that Susana would try for Starling next. Lisa fought to avoid rolling her eyes. 

_Let me out of this meeting or she'll never get the chance. I'll die of terminal boredom in here. I need to know what Baltimore PD came up with. Please please please. _

"I've made arrangements to ensure Agent Starling's safety," said Chief Quincy. 

_That _got her attention. Lisa sat up. 

"Sir?" she asked. 

"If this tip from Baltimore PD pans out," Quincy explained, "we're going in jointly with HRT. And you, Agent Starling, will be detailed to Agent Miehns. Have you heard of her?" 

Lisa had. HRT was the Hostage Rescue Team, the most heavily armed branch of the FBI. It was akin to the SWAT teams of most major city police departments. HRT was commonly viewed as the slavering gun nuts of the FBI. It was commanded by Agent Laura Miehns. Lisa had never actually met her, but she had heard of her, like just about any woman on active duty in the FBI. 

"You mean…I'm not going to be part of the collar?" she asked in astonishment. 

"Not quite. We'll discuss it later," Quincy said. "In private, Agent Starling." 

Lisa leaned forward, her jaw dropping and a look of indignation on her face. After everything she had done, she would _not_ be taken off the case. 

"Respectfully, sir, I'd like to ask a few questions," she began. 

Quincy shook his head. "Wait until Baltimore PD calls you back, Starling. Then I will discuss this with you, _in private_." 

"Yes, sir," she said bitterly. 

The door opened. Faces turned to look at the intruder. It was the elderly, pleasant secretary for Behavioral Sciences. 

"Pardon me," she said in her grandmotherly tones, "but I have a Sergeant Barlow holding for Agent Starling. He said he thought it was important." 

"Hell yes," Starling said, before anyone else could object, and ran for her cubicle. 

The phone was already off the hook. _Bless you, Beverly, _Lisa Starling thought towards the secretary. She grabbed it. 

"FBI, Agent Starling," she said breathlessly. 

"Agent Starling! Sergeant Barlow here. I thought you'd want to hear this ASAP." 

"I do. What have you got?" she demanded. 

Thankfully, Barlow did not torture her by drawing it out. "I sent a prowler out by the place. It's an abandoned factory. Mid-size, I guess you would say. There are a few lights on – not much, but some. Plus, there's a car parked outside." 

"What kind of car?" she demanded. 

"Jaguar XJ6. Two years old. Plate number comes back to a Dr. Donald Kreglow. Reported stolen earlier this morning. It's black. And there are some shopping bags on the front seat." 

Lisa didn't know car theft was one of Susana's talents, but somehow it didn't surprise her. 

"Did the officer see anything or anyone in the building?" 

"He didn't approach it, like you said. Just looked from the patrol car. He didn't see anyone, just the lights and the car." 

"Thank you. Thank you very much, Sergeant," Lisa panted. She hung up the phone and raced for the meeting room. 

Everything stopped when she entered. Everyone on the team knew what this call meant. 

"It's her," Lisa said. "Black Jag parked outside the building. Lights are on. Looks like our Susie." 

Quincy nodded. "OK. Call HRT. Starling, you're with me." 

Behavioral Sciences had never been so busy. Agents ran back and forth gathering up what they would need for the collar. Guns were taken out, cleaned, and prepared. 

At the same time, the offices of Behavioral Sciences were invaded by intruders. They wore black fatigues and caps and carried H&K submachine guns in their hands. Pistols occupied holsters on their waists. They looked emotionlessly on the intellectuals who occupied Behavioral Sciences. This was the Hostage Rescue Team. With military discipline, they marched down the halls. The woman at the head of the column walked into Chief Quincy's office. It appeared almost as if a Latin American coup had taken place in the depths of Quantico. 

Quincy walked Starling into his office, where the woman was waiting. Starling sized her up. She was much taller than Starling and about the same height as Quincy – which put her at six feet, Starling reckoned. Her hair was several shades darker brown than Lisa's malevolent cousin's, tied back in a long ponytail. Lisa wondered idly if that was acceptable HRT practice. But of course, this woman commanded the HRT. Rank had its privileges. She looked at both Starling and Quincy as they came in. 

"Sit down, Starling," Quincy said, smiling at her like a pleasant grandfather. 

Lisa sat. She eyed the woman suspiciously. 

"This is Agent Laura Miehns. She runs the HRT." 

The woman smiled once and offered Starling her hand. Starling reached out. Her own hand was swallowed up in the woman's. 

"Hi, Lisa," Laura Miehns said with more warmth than her military bearing suggested. "As Chief Quincy said, I'm Agent Miehns and I run the HRT. Also, Chief Quincy has asked me to ensure your safety on this raid. You'll be with me while we bring down Susana Alvarez Lecter." 

Lisa turned from Quincy to Miehns, her face open with shock and betrayal. She could have expected DeGraff to pull something like this, but Quincy? He had always been fair. Or at least she _thought_ he had. 

"You asked her to babysit me?" she asked Quincy venomously. 

Miehns answered for him. "Starling, I'm not a babysitter. I'm not real good at that. But what I _am_ good at is keeping people safe. You'll be there when they bring her out, you'll be part of it, but you'll be with me at the command post." 

Angry tears glittered in Starling's eyes and she forced them away. 

"After all I've done for this investigation," she said bitterly. 

"Now Starling, don't take this so hard," Quincy said comfortingly. "It's not a punishment. It's for your safety." 

"_Fuck _my safety! I'm an FBI agent like everyone else. I'm qualified in pistol like everyone else. I've worked as hard as anyone on this investigation. I deserve to be there when they bring her out. Not making coffee back at the command post." 

"Starling," Chief Quincy began. 

Agent Miehns made a gesture and took a chair. She sat down on it backwards, like a cowboy. Now she was at the same level as Lisa. When she spoke, her voice was calm, but not without sympathy. 

"Starling, everyone knows how much you've done. Even I've heard about you, now. And most of the time Behavioral Sciences and HRT don't have much truck with each other." She noted how Starling's eyes lit up. 

"Now. I tend to talk a little bluntly and I don't screw around. You'll just have to forgive me. Let's look at the facts, shall we? There is only _one_ FBI agent who Susana Alvarez Lecter has ever contacted herself. That's you. She's sent you a little gift, from what I understand, she's called you, she's emailed you. The woman we are going out to take down is a very dangerous woman. She has killed people before. She has killed _armed police officers_ before. And she just happens to be your relative and has fixated on you. Now nobody's trying to deny you anything. But the fact of the matter is, Chief Quincy asked me to ensure your safety. I agreed to do that. I deliver on what I agree to do, Starling. So first off, don't bitch to Quincy and think he'll give you what you want because he doesn't want to look sexist. Bitch to me, Starling. You can complain that I've discriminated against you to OPR if you want." 

Lisa Starling stared at Laura Miehns as if she had been slapped. Miehns pushed on. 

"_I _have decided that you'll stay back with me at the command post. That's not to punish you. That's because if you're on one of the teams going in the building, that will send up a red flag to Susana Alvarez. You want to risk the lives of the people with you? Cause you're not. Not my people, and not Quincy's. Your choices are stay at the command post and be there when she comes out in cuffs, or stay here and maybe visit her in Baltimore County Jail. Or maybe we'll bring her back here, it's not like we haven't held prisoners here before. You did great work at StartLink, don't let anyone take that away from you. But I don't have time for prima donnas either. So what's it going to be, Starling?" 

"Fine," Starling said bitterly. 

"And you won't be making coffee, either. I need people to help at the command post. We have work for you." Miehns's voice was softer. 

As much as Starling hated to admit it, Agent Miehns was right. Her presence on any of the arrest teams would be akin to a signal flare to Susana. Better to be there when they brought her out. At least it would be something. 

"All right," Starling said. "I'll do it." 

"Good, Starling." She turned her head. "Dixon, you out there?" 

"Yes, sir," came the reply. Both Starling and Quincy looked puzzled. 

"They call you sir?" Lisa asked. 

"Yes, they do. That's how it's been done. And as you may have noticed, I don't do the pink-and-frilly stuff like your cousin does." Miehns chuckled. 

A short, dark, intense man in the standard HRT black fatigues came in. He glanced up and down at the two Behavioral Sciences agents. 

"This is Dixon," Miehns explained. "He's about your height and weight, so his fatigues ought to fit you pretty well. We're going to try to make you look HRT, hopefully that'll make it harder for Susie Q to ID you." 

Starling looked at him and raised an eyebrow. She hoped he wasn't going to strip right there in Quincy's office. She wondered what would happen if he did and she slipped a dollar into his underwear and decided she was becoming depraved. 

Thankfully, he did not. He pulled a haversack out and removed a neatly folded set of fatigues, complete with boots, cap, and pistol belt. 

"There you are," he said in a friendly tone. He looked expectantly at Agent Miehns. 

"Dismissed, Dixon. Don't worry, she won't get girl cooties on them." 

Dixon grinned with large white teeth and left the office without another word. Lisa took the fatigues to the ladies' room and changed quickly. It took a bit of work to get her standard duty holster onto the pistol belt, but she managed. She tucked her hair up under the cap and observed herself in the mirror. 

The door opened. Agent Miehns came in. 

"I said you could change, not do your mascara," she grinned. She took in Lisa in the uniform. "Not too bad, Starling. You ever get tired of these Behavioral Science geeks, come see me. You look good. And I've seen your range scores." 

"I look like I'm in some Latin American guerilla squad," Lisa said, testing the waters of Agent Miehns's sense of humor. 

Miehns grinned. "That's not terribly off from what we are, Starling. Now come on. We're moving out." 

Starling saluted. "Sir, yes, SIR!" she said, and clicked her heels. 

"Don't be a wiseass, Starling." 

Hurriedly, the slightly odd group of combined HRT warriors and Behavioral Sciences intellectuals made their way out the door to where several vans were waiting. The vans drove off smoothly into the dying day. By the time they reached Baltimore, it would be dark. That wasn't too bad. They were confident in their ability to bring down their prey. Inside the vans, HRT agents showed the Behavioral Sciences people how to use the radios they used. They were hurriedly divided into three teams. Starling's responsibility, she was told, would be to keep track of the three teams that would enter the building to search for Susana Alvarez Lecter. She was given a copy of the building blueprints. That contented her: at least it was a real job to do. Although she desperately wanted to be the one to put the cuffs on her murderous cousin, she would do what she had to. 

Back at Quantico, a lab tech was curious. He opened up his email and then connected to the computer the FBI used for voiceprinting. He was curious to see what would happen, more than anything else. The voiceprinting program was new, and it made for a great toy. He glanced over at the clock. The agents had left two hours ago. Probably they had already deployed. He wondered if they had gotten Susana Alvarez already. 

The first sample the bored lab tech fed into the computer started to play. 

"Mr. Herman was very rude. Please, we implore you not to be rude. It might save your life someday. This concludes our public service announcement." The computer duly noted this as SAMPLE 1 VOICE 1. A multicolored bar of red, green, and yellow humped up and down as Susana Alvarez Lecter's digitized voice was fed into the computer. The tech entered SUSANA ALVAREZ in the name field.

Another tech saw what the first was doing and walked over. 

"Whatcha doing?" 

"Oh, just checking out this new program," he said. "It's really cool. It can compare voiceprints, tell if it's the same person. It's really cool. See, old ones could get confused if they heard two voices at once, like on a phone conversation. This one doesn't. Plus, it can screen for things like phone static, background noise, that sort of thing." He yawned. "Just thought I'd play with it while the big bad agents are away." 

The second tech leaned down to look. "That's the Lecter sample." 

"Yup. Now look, Starling is her cousin, or something. Let's play her phone conversation in and see what the Big Box makes of it. Maybe it'll tell us they're related or something." He clicked again, opening the email Lisa Starling had sent out. He fed the computer the recording attached to the email. 

"FBI, Agent Starling," came from the speakers. The computer recognized this, and noted it as SAMPLE 2 VOICE 1. Another red, green, and yellow bar humped up and down as she spoke. Dutifully, the tech informed the computer that the voice belonged to AGT LISA STARLING. 

"Hello?" Not missing a beat, the computer logged this as SAMPLE 2 VOICE 2. A third bar appeared next to it, chummily under the SAMPLE 2 VOICE 1 listing. 

"Hello, yes. This is Agent Starling. Can I help you?" The bar indicating AGT LISA STARLING bumped up and down. 

"Hello. My name…Le Duc Quong. I from Vietnam. I sorry, I no speak English good." The tech spelled out the name phonetically as best he could. The computer was not fooled. 

The conversation ran through to the end. The tech waited and then hit ANALYZE. 

ANALYZING….the computer said. 

"Let's see what it says," said the first tech. 

ANALYSIS COMPLETE. CLICK OK FOR DETAILS. 

The tech clicked OK. 

SAMPLE 1 VOICE 1: SUSANA ALVAREZ

SAMPLE 2 VOICE 1: AGT LISA STARLING

SAMPLE 2 VOICE 2: LE DUC KWONG

The tech nodded at the data below that. Susana Alvarez and Lisa Starling were the same age, same gender, and had voices in similar pitches. A seventy-six percent match was not surprising. 

SAMPLE 1 VOICE 1: SUSANA ALVAREZ

SAMPLE 2 VOICE 2: AGT LISA STARLING

SIMILARITY SCAN: 76% 

NON-MATCH 

The tech gasped and turned pale at what he saw below that. 

SAMPLE 1 VOICE 1: SUSANA ALVAREZ

SAMPLE 2 VOICE 2: LE DUC KWONG

SIMILARITY SCAN: 100%

Below that, a single word blinked on and off in red: 

MATCH

The tech moved back in his chair and gasped. The white light of the monitor made him look paler than he already was. He glanced over at the second tech. When he spoke, his voice was thin and high with shock. 

"It's a trap," he whispered. 

__


	8. The Goddess of Death and the Guardian of...

_Author's note: _

Welcome one and all to Chapter 8. Where we have: 

-violence

-gore

-other unpleasantries. 

It's a long one yes, but lately long chapters seem to be what I am writing. Look on the bright side: more story.

Two characters in this story are based off fellow Lecterphiles. I'm sorry to say that they come out of this chapter slightly the worse for wear. But, it was necessary for the story. It wasn't meant as a reflection on the people they represent: that would be discourteous, and discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me. 

On a more positive note, those people may take some cheer in that this chapter gives them something they have been campaigning for since Chapter 2. And there is more to come. But on with the show….

The old factory sat sullenly at the edge of Baltimore. It wasn't terribly big as factories go, but it loomed over the small houses that had once housed its workers and the occasional squat, brick apartment buildings. The factory had seen the passing of over a hundred and twenty years since it had first been built. For the past sixty, it had been empty and abandoned. Some of the machinery had been moved out; that which was too large to easily remove or steal remained. It looked like the corpse of a murdered idea, a relic of the Industrial Age in the world of the Information Age. 

The black Jaguar sat primly in its parking lot like a wealthy socialite in a tow truck, seemingly distressed to be in such proletarian surroundings. A few fluorescent lights spilled from the windows. Everything was quiet. The preparations had all been made. 

Four vans pulled up quickly into the darkening twilight and parked in the parking lot of the abandoned convenience store across the street. Quickly, men and women in black fatigues jumped out military-style and lined up. They wore headsets on their heads and held H&K MP5's in their hands. Their booted feet thudded against the cracked macadam. They lined up swiftly. 

A few of them set about setting up the command center. One of the vans had a table which had been folded up against the wall. They unfolded it and set up computer equipment and radio equipment quickly. The people assigned to command-post positions took up their positions in the van. Lisa Starling opened her laptop and sat down at the table. She laid the blueprints on the table and took out three black plastic checkers. 

The rest of them divided up into three teams of five each. In additioned to the uniformed HRT agents, there were Behavioral Sciences people in shirts and ties. These were swiftly covered by extra fatigue jackets, but they ultimately still stuck out as tweedy intellectuals surrounded by uniformed and armed soldiers. 

Lisa Starling adjusted her headset. Miehns had told her she would be running communications and tracking the teams as they went through the factory to find their prey. She did not watch them as they went in. Even though she knew it was necessary, there was still a knife of bitterness in watching them prepare to bring Susana down. 

Miehns was a rock in the midst of the commotion, calmly giving orders and solving last-minute problems. Her voice carried into the van. 

"All teams, report in," she said crisply. 

Voices spoke in Lisa's ear. 

"Team 1 – Dixon."

"Team 1- Hahn."

"Team 1 – Majors."

"Team 1 – Weiss."

An older, gruffer voice, one she knew: "Team 1 – Lima." 

The other teams ran through their rosters quickly. Lisa took a great measure of satisfaction in the fact that the name 'DeGraff' did not sound in her ear. DeGraff was coming back from Wheeling, where he had been distributing Susana's picture to beauty salons. 

_Na na, _Lisa Starling thought privately. _We're gonna bring Susana Alvarez Lecter out in cuffs and you spent the day in beauty salons. Hope you didn't get too many girlie cooties on you, you officious prick. _ She grinned. It was juvenile, but oh so satisfying. 

Miehns, Starling, Quincy, and another agent she did not recognize constituted the command-post staff. The name stitched in yellow thread above her jacket pocket read _WALKER. _

"Hi," she said. "I'm Walker. Communications." She sat down next to Starling at the table and began concerning herself with the radio equipment parked atop the table. 

"Starling," Lisa introduced herself. "Map girl. I dunno, what do you call this?" 

Miehn glanced over at her. "Location and Mapping, Starling." 

Lisa had her laptop and the hard copy of the blueprints. She heard them moving out on her radio. Carefully, she moved each checker to its appropriate position reflecting where each squad was. It gave her plenty to concentrate on, and in hearing them over the radio she did not feel quite so out of the action. 

Ralph Lima was alternately nervous and excited. Nervous, because there were more guns than he had seen since his Academy days around him. Excited, because there simply wasn't much opportunity for a fifty-five-year-old grandfather to play cops and robbers. The firepower around him comforted him. Good thing he was on the good-guy side.

Agent Dixon was the leader of this squad. He glanced over at Lima. Lima supposed that Dockers and a tie were not customary on HRT. He had a borrowed BDU jacket over it, but he still felt out of place. 

When Agent Dixon spoke, his tone was polite and disciplined. Lima supposed that he was trained that way, even around the old farts of Behavioral Science. 

"Agent Lima, are you armed?" 

"Yes, I am," he said gruffly. He produced his 9mm pistol to prove it. Against the MP5s that the others held, it looked inadequate. _Well, better than the .38 you had when you started_, he thought. _They'd laugh fit to split at that one. _

"Good. Keep that out, muzzle down. Don't fire unless I tell you to, please." 

Lima glanced around him at the HRT agents. He wondered what they were thinking. Was he the burden to carry around? They were all basically soldiers, trained soldiers. He was a mindhunter. Good in his own bailiwick, but these kids probably thought he was Wilford Brimley. 

The squads moved into the factory. The blueprints indicated that there were three separate hallways for them to take. Once each team had taken their hallway, they were effectively cut off from the others. But these were highly trained agents of the FBI, and each team believed they could bring down Susana Alvarez without help. It was dark in the hallways, and the agents activated the flashlights mounted under the muzzles of their guns. Nothing moved. Nothing spoke. 

"This is Dixon, Team 1," Dixon said. "We are in the building. No movement." 

"Hernandez, Team 2. We are in the building. No movement," came a reply. 

"Scott, Team 3. In the building. No movement," a third voice chirped in. 

Starling kept her eye on the blueprints and told each team what to expect coming up. She moved the checkers on the blueprint. Miehns looked over her shoulder occasionally to try and track her. 

…

The building was quite old. Once, it had manufactured clocks. As it was very old, it had an old heating system and an old ventilation system. Which meant that the heating ducts in the building were quite large. Large enough for Susana to fit in. 

She inched her way carefully through the vent until she reached the front of the factory. She emerged from the duct at the entrance that the teams had entered through fifteen minutes ago. An old desk stood sentinel to where a long-ago secretary had greeted visitors to the factory. 

She had to chuckle. If they thought they would surprise her, they had another thing coming. They sounded like a herd of elephants coming in. And those radios they liked so well: they couldn't keep from yammering on them. Susana heard her cousin's voice emanating from a few headset speakers as she crawled over them. 

Susana waited and then crept to the first door. She closed it and locked it quietly. It wouldn't keep them out for very long – they had battering rams, after all – but they would not know that they were locked out until they came back this way and discovered the door locked. 

She closed the next two and locked them. She stopped and waited, her head tilted in the darkness of the lobby. She heard no sound indicating they had heard her. Good. 

Susana wore only a simple 9mm automatic on her belt. She was dressed in black fatigues similar to those worn by the HRT. Had they bothered to look in the Jaguar, they would have found a bag from an army-navy store in Washington, DC. She knew they hadn't. The Jag was alarmed, and she had armed it. 

_Ah yes, Dr. Kreglow_, she thought. Kreglow was an old man, a psychiatrist. He had once practiced at Maryland-Misericordia with her father. It had given her a great deal of pleasure to kill him. Her father spoke poorly of him: he didn't help his patients well. 

She did not intend to use the pistol yet. Instead, she went up to the dusty, scarred desk and knelt behind its kneehole. From it, she withdrew a crossbow rifle. Her father had used these, too, and Susana had tried her hand at it as a little girl. She was better with pistols, but the crossbow would be quieter. Susana cocked the crossbow. It made a loud _click_ in the still air of the dead factory. Strapped to her left arm was a quiver holding ten more quarrels. The tips of the quarrels were razor sharp, designed to bring down deer. They would bring down the members of the HRT just as easily. 

She slipped into the vent soundlessly and began to hunt out Team 1.

…

Starling busily moved her checkers and checked in with her teams. Except for one time when an office showed up on the blueprints as two small offices and had since been turned into a big meeting room, everything was according to plan. Except that Susana had not yet been seen. 

She heard Miehns turn her head and say, "What the hell?" 

A glance out the back window of the van told her what she needed to know. A Baltimore police cruiser was parked outside. Another pulled up beside it. Miehns hopped out of the van and walked across to them. Starling made as if to rise, but Miehns waved her off. 

"Man your post, Starling. I got this." 

Miehns jogged across to the first cruiser and stuck her head in the window. A heavy cop lolled behind the wheel. 

"How you all doing?" he asked. 

"Federal operation, officer. Your sergeant should have told you." 

"He did, Agent…uh…," he squinted to read the name sewn on Miehns's jacket. "Miehns. We're here if you need us." 

"I've got plenty of men. We should be able to handle it. Thank you, though." 

"My sergeant asked me to keep an eye on things here," he said. 

Miehns sighed. _Great, all I need. A pissing match with local boys. _

"We've got a handle on things, officer," 

"Hey, I'm just here on orders, ma'am. Same as you." 

Miehns sighed. Better not to get in the way. The last thing she wanted was Susana Alvarez Lecter getting away while she argued with some fat city cop. 

"Park your cruiser and get in the van," she said. "And no one else. Just you two." 

"Yes, ma'am," the cop said respectfully, and shifted his cruiser into park. He got out and entered the van next to Starling. Starling sighed and made room. The other cop was tall and rangy, and he looked around wonderingly. 

"You guys like SWAT?" he asked. "I'm on Baltimore city SWAT." 

"Kind of," Miehns said to shut him up. 

"Command, this is team 2. We've secured the office portion. Moving on to the factory," the radio spoke up. 

Miehns put her hands on her hips. These guys were just plain annoying. Diplomacy was not her strong point. She wanted to toss the yokels out and send them back to their donuts.

Starling turned and smiled at the cop sitting next to her. 

"Look, guys," she said in a voice kind and sugary-sweet enough to rain Academy Awards from the sky. "I know you're trying to help and you've got your orders, but it would really help me out if you didn't talk so much. I have to keep track of my squads on the radio. So I have to hear them. Okay?" This last word was in a tone so coquettish that Miehns would have made gagging noises under other circumstances. 

But it worked. _Thank you, Starling,_ she thought. The cops apologized and sat back to watch the fun. 

…

Susana pushed forward out of the vent and emerged into an office. She tilted her head and listened intently. The squad was far ahead, but she could hear it. She straightened herself out and stood up. The vent was actually quite large, but she frowned at the dust on her fatigues. Dirty clothes were not ladylike. 

She stuck her head out into the hallway, low enough that she wouldn't be noticed. Up ahead, in the hallway, she could see the squad preparing to move out onto the factory floor. The factory lights were on, and the office hallway was dark. Exactly as she had planned. 

She went down on one knee and raised the crossbow to her shoulder. Her face went against the cheekpiece. She aimed the crossbow squarely at the last uniform-clad back she saw. Her mother's voice spoke up in her mind. 

_Back shots are cheap, Miss Chickabee, but they do the job. _

You got it, Mother, she thought back, and squeezed the trigger. 

There was little sound. The 150-pound crossbow clicked and sent its quarrel thirty feet down the hallway. It buried itself in its target with little noise. Susana put another quarrel in and recocked the crossbow. It was tough to cock, but she managed it by bracing the stock under her arm. 

The team was just realizing that it had lost a member when she fired her second shot. A second black-clad figure dropped. Susana knew she would not get a third chance and drew her pistol as she ducked back into the office. Although it was dark, she knew she could hit her targets. They were federal officers, trained not to fire their weapons unless they had clearly defined targets in their sights. Flashes of movement did not count. 

Their own damn fault, she thought. 

She stuck her head out and fired at the third man. He was dressed differently, she noted. When she stuck her head out, she was greeted with a hail of fire that ripped into the drywall beside her. She pumped a few shots into his gut. Since she no longer had the advantage of silence, she might as well make him suffer. 

_Whee,_ Susana Alvarez Lecter thought. _Now this is different._

"This is Team 1! This is Team 1! Majors and Weiss are down! We are taking fire! Repeat, we are taking fire! Lima has been hit!" 

In the van, Starling stood up when she heard the transmission counterpointed by gunfire. "Lima?" she cried. "Talk to me, Ralph." 

Miehns grabbed her shoulder and forced her back down. "Man your post, Starling!" 

Starling's hands jittered as she consulted her checkers. "Teams 2 and 3, back to the lobby and through the first door on the left. Hurry! Team 1 is taking fire." 

The clumpy-bumpy sound of running boots indicated that the other teams were already doing just that. Starling gripped a checker hard until it dug into her palm and tried to concentrate. _Not Lima. Please not Lima. Susana, you bitch, don't you dare hurt Lima._ She navigated the teams back through the halls, but she already knew it was too late. 

Susana fired twice more, a quick double tap, and another HRT agent collapsed. Now there was just Dixon. Another quick _brapbrapbrap_ of 9mm fire ripped down her way. The light on the end of his submachine gun strafed the hallway. 

Dixon could hardly believe this. Two minutes ago, everything was fine. Now, three other agents were dead and Lima was down. He was the only one left. His pulse roared in his ears. Adrenalin flooded his system and made him jitter in his boots. Three dead agents, all one-shot kills. _Goddam, she must be a good shot. _ He heard a loud _click_. 

_Calm down. It's just one person. One girl. Find her and shoot her. Keep your head. The click means she must be reloading. You can get her, Dixon. _

He moved his rifle back and forth, slowly and deliberately. At one point, he saw a black boot scoot back into the office. He ran to the other side and began to approach it quietly. His finger was on the trigger. If he saw her, he would shoot. 

Something moved in the light. He moved his rifle up and the beam illuminated something tiny, flying towards him. The tip gleamed in the light. 

"What the hell?" he said, and then the crossbow quarrel struck him between the eyes and ended his questions. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter rose from her position of cover in the office doorway and walked towards the dead squad. Her weapon was out and aimed at the bodies. Only one moved. She glanced down at the old man moaning on the floor. Contemptuously, she kicked his pistol out of his hand and then buried her boot in his stomach, where a red flower from her bullet was already spreading. He let out an anguished scream. She took in the tie and nice pants under the black jacket and realized he must be Behavioral Science. 

"What's your name, old man?" she challenged. 

"Lima," he grunted. "You must be Susana Alvarez." 

"That's not it. Say my name _properly._" 

"Susana Alvarez, kiddo. Kill me if you want, you will anyway." 

Susana fired once into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth in pain and gripped the wound with his other hand. 

"I'll make you suffer first, Lima," she said. 

…

Starling was hunched over her blueprints, staring at nothing. Her heart larruped along in her chest as she heard gunfire and screams. Then she heard bootsteps going down the hallway, towards the team. Their microphones were still live. They were not. 

She heard Ralph moaning in pain. Then, faintly, barely caught by a mike: 

"What's your name, old man?" 

Starling rose. She had to do something. She would not let Susana take down Lima. He was the closest thing she had to a partner. Not Lima. Susana couldn't have him. She would stop him. 

Miehns glanced over at her and frowned. 

"Susana Alvarez, kiddo. Kill me if you want, you will anyway." 

Another gunshot echoed over the radio. 

"I'll make you suffer first, Lima," came her evil cousin's voice. 

_She's going to torture him to death. She's going to torture him to death…knowing that I'm listening. _

"Susana, stop!" she screamed into the radio. No reply came. Susana had no radio to answer with yet. Starling turned and jumped out of the van to the macadam below. Her pistol was already in her hand. 

"Starling, no! Stand down!" Something bigger and heavier than her crashed into her from behind. It was Agent Miehns. Laura Miehns had run HRT for a long time, and she was used to dealing with hysterical hostages. 

Miehns was heavier than Starling, but it was all muscle. With better strength, experience, leverage, and force, she maneuvered the smaller woman to the ground and forced the pistol out of her hand. It clunked onto the macadam of the parking lot. All the while, Susana continued to torment Ralph Lima over the radio while both women listened. 

"I have to help him!" Starling sobbed. "I can't just leave him!" 

"Starling, _no. _You can't help him. She'll just kill you too. You're not going anywhere. Let the teams get her." 

Starling bucked and twisted under her, and for just a moment Miehns thought she might escape. She let Starling's arm go and laced her arms under Starling's shoulders and up around her neck in a full nelson. The younger woman launched herself forward, trying to evade her grip. Miehns had rehabilitated wildlife in her youth, and trying to hold Starling was like trying to hold a small, panicky wild animal that was intent on getting away. She gritted her teeth and locked her fingers tighter on the nape of Starling's neck. 

"Starling, _you can't help him. _Man your post. Man your post, dammit."

Starling relaxed in her grip then, and burst into tears. Another gunshot echoed in her headset. Another scream from Lima. But she relaxed and remained calm. After a moment, Miehns asked her, "You calm?" 

"Yes," Starling said in a tone of utter defeat. 

"Get back in there and get the remaining teams to him," Miehns ordered. "Get them there now, before she kills him. She's just toying with him. 

Lisa Starling picked up her gun and shoved it back in its holster. She was bitter as she sat down again and checked in with the teams. The fact that they had heard her did not help things. 

"Teams 2 and 3, report your position," she said, her throat clogging. 

…

"Damn," Susana said, "you take a lot of punishment, Lima." 

Ralph Lima knew death was near, and it didn't bother him. He would have liked to see his grandson grow older, but that was life in the FBI. Besides, it would put him out of this monster's reach. 

Lima's right hand was a mess of blood, meat, and shattered bone. Susana had shown off her accuracy by shooting him three times in rapid succession in a neat diagonal across the palm of his hand. When he still refused to address her the way she wanted him to, she had ground the remains of his hand under her boot. 

He had screamed then. He couldn't help it. 

"I'll help you, Ralphie boy. Susana Alvarez Lecter. LEC-ter. You know, like my papa. Say it, Ralphie, and allll the pain will go away." 

"Y'know, you're just like your dad," Ralph Lima said, his lips split back in defiance. 

"Why, thank you." 

"You're both crazy as shithouse rats. Torture me all you want, Susana. There are more on the way where we came from." 

Susana's face darkened. "Oh, I know," she said jovially. "It's just a question of how much you want to hurt before you go." She prodded his stomach wound with her boot again. "But you never…_never…._talk about my father like that in my presence." 

Ralph Lima thought about the Marine he had once been. 

"Fuck you," he spat. "Fuck you and your crazy-ass cannibal daddy." He meant to drive this young monster into a killing rage. If he had to go, he would go out a winner. 

Susana bent over him, reversed her grip on her pistol, and pistol-whipped him with it in three measured blows that were no less savage. His nose broke and he felt blood fill his sinuses. His front teeth broke off and landed in the back of his throat. He tried to get his left hand up to defend himself and knew it was a mistake. She whirled the gun back into firing position as neat as you please and fired point-blank into his palm. 

Ralph gagged on his own blood. His stomach and hands were points of flame. His feet were going numb. _Shock, probably. Bet my pulse is dropping. Next comes numbness everywhere, then I'll die. Wonder if I'll be mentioned in her case history…_ But the evil young goddess of death had stepped over him and was doing something else. He heard a body thump over and heard cloth and plastic click. When she returned, she wore Dixon's cap and jacket and was adjusting Dixon's headset into position. 

Whatever she was about to say, she wanted Starling to hear it. 

"You're good, Ralphie boy," she said. "A worthy opponent, unlike these toy soldiers here. So I grant you your reward. Are you listening, little Lisa Starling? I hope you are." 

Starling tensed in the van but did not move. Her eyes brimmed with tears of grief and fury. 

Two gunshots echoed over the radio. Lisa screamed. Susana chuckled over the radio and pushed her mike out of the way. 

Susana heard banging. The other teams had discovered they were locked out. She picked up a spare MP5, checked to make sure it was loaded, and slipped back into the office she had hid in. She crawled through the vent as quietly as she could. She emerged back into the second hallway, where Team 2 was busy banging on the door to the lobby. 

She glanced down the hall. They were too far away to notice her, and from the jabbering over the radio they still thought there was something to find at the remains of Team 1. _Too bad, boys. You missed the party. _ She slipped out of the vent and crossed the hallway to a door. Printed on the door was the words TO BASEMENT. 

The stairs were concrete. Long-lasting but noisy. Susana slid down the banister like a child, thus getting down the stairs with only a squeak or two of flesh on metal instead of the noisy racket of boots on concrete would have caused. At the landing, she dismounted the one and got on the other. The MP5 clacked where its sling swivels banged against its body. The basement door was locked, but that was OK. Susana removed a tool from her fatigue pants pocket and slipped it into the lock. In the space of two calm breaths, the lock was open and Susana slipped into the basement. 

Although no stranger to killing, Susana was neither stupid not foolhardy. She knew perfectly well she could not repeat her success with Team 1. They would be on their guard now. If they were smart, the two teams would combine into one, meaning there would be ten heavily armed people hunting her down in a party. Or maybe eight heavily armed and two with pistols, like old Ralphie. If they saw her, they'd shoot her on sight. 

When you can't win the game, you can either lose, or you can change the rules. 

The old factory was heated with heating oil. The big oil tank that serviced the building was where Susana expected it to be – built into a wall in the basement. According to the gauge, it was three-quarters full. She looked around at the basement and found what she hoped to find. There were a few moldy old wooden pallets, a few cardboard boxes, and a few pieces of newspaper. There was a new can of lighter fluid resting on a century-old shelving unit. This had been part of Susana's purchases before the FBI showed up. 

Susana dragged these all over to the oil tank. She carefully piled up the pallets, newspaper, and boxes into a rough cone. Then she spilled a line of lighter fluid leading back to the door. Hopefully, the tank would blow. Susana thought that it would. She put the can of lighter fluid at the base of her cone of kindling. 

She took a deep breath and went into her memory palace. She reviewed both her own memories of the factory and the self-same blueprints her grieving cousin was hunched over now. She mentally timed how long it would take her to run and get somewhere safe before the oil tank exploded. None of them worked. Not good. 

Then she saw it – right next to the oil tank, there was an old window. It screeched horribly when she tried to open it, but open it did. The door was locked, anyway, so it didn't matter if they heard her. The window opened onto the back of the factory, and there was only a six-foot fence she could have scaled in her sleep there. Beyond the fence, the land sloped down sharply. 

Translation: if she made it over the fence before the oil tank went _boom_, she would be okay. 

Susana retrieved her lighter fluid and made a long curve leading from the door to the window. The can went back into the base of the firewood. She took a piece of newpaper and formed it into a spill. Her hands did not tremble. She was calm as she worked, her ears pricked for the sounds of the FBI. Then she dipped her fingers into her BDU jacket pocket, under the jacket she had taken from Dixon. She came out with a silver lighter. With a flick of her elegant fingers, a small yellow butane flame bloomed into existence. 

Susana lit the spill of newspaper and waited ten seconds or so until it was burning nicely. Then she dropped it. She jumped up and put her foot into a pipe leading off the oil tank. The pipe creaked unpleasantly. She braced herself and thrust her body through the window and ran across the parking lot. With a grunt, she jumped into the air, her fingers and feet seeking purchase in the chain-link fence. She scaled it neatly, jumped to the ground on the other side, and ran as fast as she could to lower ground. She rolled and covered up her head for what was coming. 

It was too bad, really. She preferred to kill face to face. But even an artist must sometimes employ assembly-line methods when there is no other option. And this demanded it. 

Behind her, the lighter fluid caught fire as soon as the newspaper spill reached the ground. The flame ran the curve she had traced in a long, lazy dipsy-doodle curve. It ran into the base of the cone and the lighter fluid remaining in the can caught with a _whump_. The newspaper and cardboard caught immediately. The wood began to burn a few seconds later. 

…

The teams had reached the remains of Team One. They noticed that only one weapon was missing and reported back. Lisa Starling advised them in a dry, toneless voice to spread out and begin seeking out Susana Alvarez at once. Their weapons at the ready, they began to head into the factory after their prey. Their loss had only doubled their determination. When Susana left the factory, she would leave on a stretcher, one way or the other. 

In the van, Laura Miehns looked over at where Starling hunched. 

"I'm sorry, Starling," she said softly. 

A new voice cut in on the radio. 

"Cousin Lisa? Y'all there?" 

Miehns sat up and grabbed her headset. "Listen, Alvarez, you may think you're cute, but you just signed your own death warrant." 

"An' who would _yew _be? Ah wanna talk to mah cousin." 

"I'm here, you fucking psycho," Lisa said wearily. A vast emptiness was beginning in her chest. She'd never thought loss could hurt this much. 

"That ain't raht neighborly of yah, Cousin Lisa. I tell you what, though. I'd git mahself to safe ground if I were you." 

Just then, a massive roar shook the van. A vast gout of angry flame shook the factory. Chunks of concrete flew in all directions like the fists of an angry god. One struck the van and smacked it over on its side as easily as a two-year-old might knock over a Matchbox car. Anguished screams came from the remains of the factory. Equipment flew in all directions in the van. 

For a moment, the world consisted of screams, flame, and pain. The roar of the explosion deafened everyone nearby. Susana Alvarez was the last thing on the minds of anyone in the van. As radio equipment and computers fell pell-mell in the van, chaos reigned. 

…

Peter DeGraff was annoyed. 

Wheeling had largely been a bust. The beauty salons he had been forced to visit all acted like he was some kind of pervert. And none of them had even heard of Susana Alvarez Lecter. The drive back to DC was stalled by traffic. He'd gotten caught in construction on I-70. The cheap piece of shit government car's air conditioning had failed. As he watched the temperature gauge rise, sweat trickling down his back, he had felt himself grow more and more enraged. 

Then, to top it off, his cell phone had rang while he was in the middle of Virginia. They'd found the bitch. They were going to get her, and he was going to miss it. At least he could content himself that Starling wasn't going to get to put the cuffs on her. She was going to be back at the command post, being babysat by that Miehns bitch. Probably for the best, he thought. Women where women belong, doing administrative stuff. The fact that Miehn's position was in command, not adminstration, bothered him not a whit. And the unlovely truth about Peter DeGraff was that he really wouldn't have cared if someone had pointed it out to him. For his own pleasure, he pictured the two of them typing and taking dictation as he sat in the middle of goddam Cowshit, Pennsylvania.

He finally got through the traffic jam and got into Baltimore. He knew roughly where the place was, and when he didn't, he flagged down an officer and got directions with his FBI credentials. As he drove along Bleeker St, looking for the damn place, he heard an explosion that made the car shake. 

_What the fuck? _

He turned the corner. 1479 Bleeker, just where it should be. And there were the vans, but they were knocked over like kid's toys. The factory itself was a flaming ruin. 

DeGraff got out of the car and gaped stupidly at the wreckage of the factory. He could hear cries coming from the van, but in his sheer shock he did not think to offer assistance. He simply stared at the broken remains of the factory and at the chunks of concrete scattered about the parking lot. 

A figure came scurrying around the side of the shattered building. DeGraff looked around. It was too small to be anyone except Starling. He stalked up to the figure. As he came closer, he saw she was wearing black fatigues, as if she was actually some sort of soldier. 

"Starling," he said. "What the fuck happened?" 

She stared at him and did not reply. 

"Goddam it, answer me, Starling! They're all dead, aren't they? They're all dead." 

She looked towards the wreckage and nodded slowly. 

"And you…you're alive." DeGraff shook his head. 

Normally, Peter DeGraff would have known better than to cut loose with what he said. But the sight of the explosion along with the realization that all the agents inside must be dead had shaken him to his core. People he knew were in there. People who had actually proven themselves as worthy, not like this kid here. 

"You're alive. How'd you manage that?" His voice was both shocked and bitter. "Should've been you, bitch. That way we wouldn't have lost anything worth having." 

Starling tilted her head at him and studied him emotionlessly. Her left hand crept back to behind her back. 

"Look at you," he said. "Some other agent's name on that jacket. And there you are, alive. You're not fit to be here, Starling. You're not worth the air you breathe." 

"You're very rude," she observed. 

The voice tipped him off. He studied the planes of her face again. They were similar to Starling's but not quite. Under her cap, a few stray hairs curled out. Brown hairs, not blond. 

Her eyes were maroon, not blue.

"You're not Starling," DeGraff whispered strengthlessly. Suddenly his knees felt very weak and his head felt swimmy. 

"That's right. I'm not," Susana Alvarez Lecter agreed. When her left hand came away from behind her back, it bore neither her Harpy nor her pistol. Instead, she held the stun gun she had used to kidnap the other girl named Susana Alvarez. She grabbed him with her right hand and placed the probes against him. Only the thin cotton of his shirt protected him from the metal probes. It wasn't enough. 

Five hundred thousand volts of electricity coursed through Peter DeGraff's body. He went limp almost immediately. Susana grabbed him around the waist and lifted. Anyone watching her would have been highly fascinated. Pound for pound she was strong as an ant, as her father before her had been. She heaved DeGraff over her shoulder and walked towards his car. Looking at it, she decided it would not do. 

Beyond the toppled vans were two police cruisers. Susana walked over to the farthest one and looked it over. The vans and the other cruiser had protected it from the worst of the blast. In addition, it had a cage in the back for arrestees, which is what she had been looking for. 

She dropped DeGraff on the concrete like a sack of potatoes and opened the back door. Under his checked sports jacket, she found what she wanted. She relieved him of his gun and handcuffs and slipped the cuffs on his wrists. Unable to resist, she rolled him over and looked in at the label on the inside of the sport coat. 

65% POLYESTER/35% WOOL, it read. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter chuckled. Her fist tightened down atop his head. She dragged him by the hair the remaining few feet to the cruiser in an unconscious reversal of the old caveman joke. Then her arms were under his, up up up, and tumble bump bump into the back of the cruiser, where he lay drunkenly on the vinyl seat. His body would still not respond to his wishes. Awareness that something terrible had happened to him was in his eyes. Susana thought he might have broken his wrists, but everyone takes their chances, and calling Susana Alvarez Lecter a bitch was a chancy thing to do indeed. 

She got behind the wheel and started the car. It started right up. Susana grinned. She fastened her seat belt and dropped it into drive.

…

Lisa Starling groaned in the wreckage of the van. Her back ached where something heavy had landed on it. She raised her head and discovered she was now lying on the wall of the van. Something was atop her, but she managed to get it off her. It crashed to the floor—the wall—whatever—with a loud tinkle of glass and plastic. 

Moving her limbs, she discovered that she was sore but mostly okay. The Communications agent did not seem to be. Her large base-unit radio lay atop her skull. There was too much blood under her head for Lisa to think of offering first aid. 

"Starling."

Starling's head snapped up and she looked around blearily. Laura Miehns lay in front of her. A heavy piece of equipment Starling did not know the function of lay on her leg. Her face was pinched in pain. 

"Starling, you okay?" 

"Yeah, I think so," Starling said. "Are you?" 

Miehns rocked her hand back and forth in a _comme ci, comme ca _gesture. "Been better. I think my leg is broken." 

Starling started towards her. "Let me try to help you, then." 

Miehns shook her head. In her hand was her phone. She grabbed the front of Starling's torn BDU jacket. 

"I'll be OK. Don't worry about me. I know how to take a beating. Just no line dancing for me for a while. Susana Alvarez Lecter is still out there, Starling. I'll call for help. You get Lecter." 

"Yes, ma'am," Starling said, still a little dazed. 

"I mean it, Starling. Put her down. Put her down for all of us. You're the only one left." 

Lisa Starling nodded and glanced towards the back of the van. She crawled through the wreckage towards it. The right-hand door—the top door, now—was open. She pressed on it and it opened with a screech. 

She heard voices. _Great. I must be going into shock. Internal injuries. _

"You're not Starling," a man's voice said. 

"That's right, I'm not," a woman's voice returned. 

_You got that right, _Lisa Starling thought blearily. _I am. At least I think I am. I was before, at least._

Then there was a thud, and the scraping sound of someone being lifted. Lisa stuck her head out of the van blearily. Her eyes widened as she saw her cousin stroll by the van. Hurriedly, Lisa pulled the door shut, hoping Susana did not see. Thankfully, the monster walked past without noticing her. Like a small child facing the boogeyman, Lisa opened the door a crack and looked out. 

She saw her cousin drop her captive and blinked. It was DeGraff. Amazing. 

She opened the door and began to work herself out of the van. In front of her, Susana threw DeGraff in the back of the car and got behind the wheel. Lisa moved a bit faster and finally collapsed onto the macadam, coughing. She forced her sore body to her feet and started off after the car. 

The car's engine revved, and then it was gone. Painfully, Lisa Starling limped out into the clear and drew her weapon. She aimed it at the departing car. Then she lowered the pistol an inch or two. 

_Fuck DeGraff! _She thought suddenly. _He's been nothing but trouble. Fuck him. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. _

For a moment, she saw herself in a suit, facing a bunch of men in suits. She saw herself open her big blue eyes and bat them at the men. 

_Really, sirs, I tried to open fire on the vehicle, but Susana Alvarez had already fled…I am deeply sorry for the loss of Agent DeGraff, but I did not want to open fire, there might have been civilians in the area…what? Why yes, sir, I was in a lot of pain…I thought I might have suffered internal injuries…Agent Miehns had a broken leg, I was afraid to leave her. No, sir, by the time I had gotten out of the van, the car was already gone…I couldn't justify firing at a car a mile away, sir, that would be a violation of FBI policy regarding weapons fire…_

She could do that, and she'd get away with it. All she would have to do would be put her weapon down and lie down on the ground. 

Her cousin spoke up in her mind. _Do it, Cousin Lisa. I'll take yore revenge for ya. Nobody will know. _

"Nobody except me," Lisa Starling murmured. Her fantasy was now right about one thing: the departing cruiser was too far for her to shoot at. She sighed. 

Even though no one else would know, Lisa would. And she couldn't bring herself to do it. Despite it all, Lisa Starling knew what her duty was. She was a warrior. Her job was to protect those who could not protect themselves. To protect the lambs, her first cousin might have said. She was the guardian of the lambs. 

Even when those lambs cut you up and tore you down. Duty was duty. 

"I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot," she murmured to herself as she limped towards the first cruiser. She examined it critically. The right side of the windshield was starred and broken. The driver's side windows were both horrors of white lines in glass. The driver's side door had a big dent. The front bumper was askew. But the grille and the hood were unmarked, and so Lisa believed that the engine was OK. 

She opened the door and threw herself behind the wheel. The keys were above the visor. Starling took the keys and put them in the ignition. The engine roared. 

Starling smiled bitterly. _Ha ha, Susana. You're not winning everything tonight. And I am gonna get you for what you did to Lima and everyone else. _

She drove off in pursuit. It took her only a few moments to catch up with her cousin. Susana had her lights going and was doing eighty on residential streets. Starling grinned bitterly and pushed her cruiser up to ninety. 

Susana surprised her by swerving onto a highway on-ramp. That was actually better, Starling thought. Less chance of someone getting killed. She swerved with Susana and got on the highway. 

She grabbed the radio. 

"Pull over, Susana. You're never going to get away with this. We're gonna get you." 

"Well, I declare," Susana answered. "Cousin Lisa Lee Starling, Ah'm not ready to do that. We're having too much fun, ain't we?" 

Thankfully, Susana still had her lights going, so most traffic pulled over for her instead of getting someone killed. 

"Susana, it's over." 

There was no reply. 

Susana kept her eyes on her rearview mirror and grinned. In the back, DeGraff was groaning. 

"Well hello, Prince Charming," she said. 

Her cousin kept squawking at her to give up. Susana rolled her eyes. After all, who had the nice cruiser and who had the beaten up one? Didn't that say anything? She tired of her cousin's righteous noise and turned on the radio. She found Shania Twain singing 'Man, I feel like a woman.' Susana decided this might cheer up her cousin and held down the transmit button on the mike. 

"Ooh-ooh-ohh, go totally crazy…forget I'm a lady," she sang along to tweak Lisa and then pulled a face of distaste. Lesser females might forget they were ladies, but Susana Alvarez Lecter did not. She continued singing along. 

Lisa Starling rolled her eyes. A murderous cousin was bad enough. A murderous cousin who listened to country music? Despite her anger and her pain, she laughed. 

When you are driving at ninety miles an hour, you cover ground quickly. Within ten minutes, both women had left the Baltimore city limits and were into a more rural area. Susana noted the next exit and knew where she wanted to go. She turned off the lights and waited. The exit was half a mile away. The cruiser ate it up like a cheetah. 

When she was fifty feet from the exit, Susana whipped the wheel to the right. The cruiser's tires screeched in protest, but it was built for performance. She continued on to the exit and jacked the wheel to the right, disappearing down the secondary road. 

Back on the highway, Lisa swore as she saw Susana turn. She jammed on the brakes. Her cruiser whined and screamed. The police car turned a hundred and eighty degrees, leaving a thick layer of rubber on the asphalt of the highway. Lisa was staring at oncoming traffic. 

_Fuck it. My lights are going. Get out of my way, assholes. _

She pressed the accelerator and pursued her cousin. She turned right as Susana had. A mile or two down the road, she saw a tiny white cruiser turn right onto another country road. Starling's lips split back from her teeth in a grin of savage victory. _You didn't lose me yet,Cousin Susie. _

The tires screeched again as she slammed the pedal down in pursuit. She roared down the highway. The radio nattered at her, demanding to know who she was and what she had been doing ripassing down the highway like that and what her badge number was. 

Lisa Starling grabbed the radio's volume button and spun it to OFF so hard it snapped off in her hand. She tossed it out the window nonchalantly. The cruiser roared forward for a mile and she whipped the wheel to the right. 

It was hard to believe Baltimore was so close. The road could have easily been in Beaumont. Nothing but trees and fields, as far as the eye could see. Lisa ignored the pretty arboreal scene and slammed the pedal down to pursue the two faint taillights disappearing over the next rise. 

The distance closed as Lisa crested the hill. She checked her speedometer. Eighty. Susana's cruiser was doing a sedate sixty. She did not speed up as Lisa's cruiser drew closer. 

_What the hell? Is she going to just give up? _

Lisa dropped her speed. Susana accelerated to sixty-five. She could see DeGraff's head in the back seat now, illuminated by her headlights. One was aimed properly. The other veered off drunkenly, lighting up the side of the road. 

When it happened, it happened quickly. Susana jammed on the brakes of her car. The taillights lit up like twin red eyes. Susana grinned as the brake pedal vibrated under her foot, signifying that the ABS was working. 

Lisa Starling tried to brake herself, but she still had ten miles an hour on her cousin and she was too close. As Susana's car screeched to a stop, Lisa's cruiser plowed into the back. Metal crumpled and screamed. Glass and plastic shattered. DeGraff screamed in the back as the nose of Lisa's cruiser steadily ate its way through the trunk towards him. 

Lisa Starling and Susana Alvarez Lecter were different people in many ways. Lisa Starling was a born American; Susana had never been to the U.S. until she was twenty-one. Lisa Starling had been raised poor. Susana had been raised rich. Susana had loved her father purely. Lisa had been afraid of hers. Susana believed in chaos. Lisa believed in order. 

But as the two cruisers merged into one in a hellish dance of metal and glass, there were two differences between them which were much more important. These two differences were simply these: 

Susana Alvarez wore her seat belt. Lisa did not. The air bags in Susana's cruiser were functional, and indeed the side ones deployed. The air bags in Lisa's car were damaged from where the bumper had been torn off, and they did not deploy. 

As the two cars slammed into each other, Susana Alvarez simply kept her foot on the pedal and tried to steer as best she could. Which was better than normal, considering that her front tires and steering were unaffected. 

Lisa Starling pitched forward into the windshield. Her skull smacked into the glass with a loud _crack. _The windshield starred. So did Lisa's forehead. Lisa barely had time to register the rearview mirror cracking and falling to the floor. Then everything went black.


	9. Fine Dining

                _Author's note:  This chapter is very, very gory.  _

At first, there was pain.  Pain in her head and pain in her body.  The pain in her head was more localized, centered around the right side of her forehead.  It throbbed in time with her pulse.  Although she was not yet aware of it, there was an ugly red wound that blood slipped from.  

                Then there were sounds.  The first sound she was aware of was a harsh panting.  It took her a few minutes to recognize it as her own breathing.  There were also the more distant sounds:  a car door slamming: a woman's voice, mocking and threatening, but not addressed to her.  

                Then, last, came sight.  Starling's eyes fluttered open and observed the starred windshield and the ceiling of the cruiser above her.  Her head lay limply against the headrest of the cruiser.  The world seemed far away, and came in beats.  _Beat beat beat_, and then everything would spin into a gray mist for a while.  It wasn't long, and then her vision would resolve again into the inside of the cruiser.  Her hands lay limply where they had tangled in the steering wheel.  She tried to move them and found that it hurt to do so.  

                She heard the screech of the dented door opening and moved her eyes to look.  Her head stubbornly refused to move.  It was simply too heavy.  

                A black-fatigued figure stood at the driver's side door and leaned in.  Lisa Starling smiled.  HRT had come for her.  They had found her.  Then she saw the name DIXON sewn on the name tag, and frowned.  That was wrong.  She was wearing Dixon's jacket herself; Dixon had been in the building.  Or had he?  She could not remember.  Vaguely she remembered a building exploding, and that made her think of Lima for some reason and feel sad.  

                She swam into the gray again, then was brought back by the feel of light hands on her head.  She opened her eyes to see Susana Alvarez Lecter leaning into the wrecked cruiser, examining the wound on her forehead with critical eyes.  Then there were arms under her shoulders.  She could feel herself being pulled from the cruiser.  As her body was pulled free, she could hear the heels of her boots dragging on the asphalt of the deserted country road.  

                Then there was the sound of a truck door moving up on pneumatics.  She was dragged into the back of a Suburban.  She could feel Susana's hands on her belt, removing her gun and handcuffs.  The gun disappeared into the pocket of Susana's BDU jacket.  The handcuffs were put on her wrists.  

                _Wait, no, what are you doing? _She thought.  The door closed.  She heard the sound of someone turning in the back seat and saw DeGraff's face looking over her.  There was a diamond-mark pattern on his cheek where his face had smacked into the grille separating the front and back seats.  

                Then the truck started, and everything went black for a while. 

                When Starling came back to the world, she was no longer in the truck.  She was lying on a bed.  Her arms were secured over her to the bedposts.  She was no longer wearing the fatigues; as she raised her head blearily and stared down at herself she saw she was wearing a white cocktail dress.  White pumps were on her feet.  She laid her head back and groaned.  

                The door opened, and Susana Alvarez Lecter came in.  She, too, was wearing a dress.  In one hand she carried a black leather doctor's bag.  She smiled pleasantly at her captive and sat down on the bed next to her.  

                "You're awake," she said.  "You had me worried.  I thought you had a fractured skull.  Looks like just a concussion, though."  Her voice was brisk and nursey. 

                Lisa groaned again and winced as Susana began to remove the bandage covering her forehead and changed it.  

                "What the hell are you doing?" she asked.  

                "Changing your bandage," Susana said promptly.  "Whatever did you think, Cousin Lisa?" 

                "Why?"  

                "Because the old one is so terribly bloody and you need to look good for dinner." 

                Susana removed a pill bottle from her bag and shook out a white pill.  "Here you go, Cousin Lisa." 

                Lisa closed her mouth and turned her face away.  There was no way she was taking a pill from Susana Alvarez Lecter.  

                Susana's lips pursed.  "Cousin Lisa, please.  It's just Vicodin, and it'll make your head feel ever so much better."  

                Lisa shook her head and pressed her lips together in a thin line.  

                "Open your mouth, please," Susana said in a displeased tone, "or I'll open it myself.  And I'll ram it down your gullet with a stick if I have to, but that would be so much more unpleasant. " 

                Lisa swallowed and thought.  Susana was definitely capable of that, but still, she was loath.  

                "Lisa Lee Starling," Susana said peremptorily.  Her free hand rummaged in the bag.  Blearily, Lisa thought of her mother.    

                Lisa sighed and opened her mouth.  Susana dropped the pill inside and allowed her cousin to sit up.  Ever the pleasant hostess, she let Lisa sip from a glass of water, then inspected the inside of her mouth to ensure she'd swallowed the pill.  

                "Dinner will be in about half an hour," Susana said calmly.  "I'll take you down to the dining room and set you up in your chair.  I'm afraid you can only have a few glasses of wine."  

                Susana unlocked the handcuffs and then locked them again behind Starling's back.  She helped her considerately to her feet and walked her out of the bedroom and down the hall.  

                "Where am I?" Starling croaked. 

                "We are enjoying the hospitality of Agent DeGraff's home," Susana said delicately.  "But he's a bit indisposed, so I'll be the hostess tonight.  You need only sit back and relax." 

                "Lima," Lisa groaned.  "You killed Lima." 

                "Agent Lima and I had a disagreement, that's true.  But it's all in the past now."  

                Lisa started and tried to dig in her heels as Susana marched her down to the stairs.  Vague memories of hanging arose.  She felt the sharp point of a blade dig into her back.  

                "Please, cousin Lisa.  I know you never learned about proper ladylike manners, but it's _rude_ to misbehave when you're a guest."  

                The house was quite large and majestic.  Lisa looked around in surprise at it.  DeGraff had to have some kind of money to afford a place like this.  

                The dinner table was set for three.  Two places were empty.  At one place, Agent Peter DeGraff sat in a computer office chair.  He wore a tuxedo and a very frightened expression.  Contrasting against the black sleeves of his tuxedo jacket were the several strands of duct tape that Susana had used to tie him to the chair. He watched the two women enter with a look of trepidation.  

                Susana guided her captive to the seat next to DeGraff's and sat her down.  She squatted beside her to bind Lisa's ankles and waist to the chair.  Only once this had been done did she remove the handcuffs.  They went onto the table by Lisa's plate, next to her fork.  

                "Would either of you care for wine?" she asked elegantly.  "Or perhaps some brandy?  Agent DeGraff has some wonderful Grand Marnier." 

                DeGraff shook his head.  Fear-sweat covered his face.  

                Starling did not reply.  Susana nodded and took her wine glass, filling it one-third full with Chateau d'Yquem.  She filled her own and sampled it, nodding.  

                "d'Yquem is wonderful wine.  From your birth year, Cousin Lisa.  Our birth year, actually.  We share the same birthday, isn't that amusing?"  

                Starling noticed there was an extra wine glass at each place setting.  For some reason, this made her heart begin to pound.  As the pain in her head began to drop in intensity, her thoughts came more clearly and she began to realize what trouble she was in.

                "What are you doing? Why are you keeping me here?" she demanded. 

                "What am I doing?  Why, making dinner, of course.  Look around you.  If you ever want to be in Behavioral Sciences permanently, you ought to notice these things, Cousin Lisa."  

                Near the table stood a large chrome cart.  Lisa noticed that there was a bag atop it emblazoned with the logo of a Baltimore medical supplies company.  She trembled.  

                "Susana, let me go now.  It'll go easier on you once they catch you."  

                "You mean _if _they catch me," Susana said diplomatically but firmly, "and not until after dinner." 

                She crossed over to the cart and took the bag.  From it, she removed a plastic tube and a long, sharp needle.  Starling recoiled.  She set the bag down in front of Lisa, but out of her reach.  

                "Now this is going to hurt a bit," Susana said, "so I'll just relieve you of temptation."  Her fingers fastened down on Lisa's right wrist with inhuman strength.  She took the handcuffs and fastened them onto her quickly.  Then, again the elegant hostess, she carefully wiped a spot on Lisa's chest with an alcohol wipe.  She removed the needle from its plastic carrier.  

                "Now take a deep breath," she urged, and pressed the needle into Lisa's chest firmly.  Lisa gasped in pain.  It felt like being stabbed.  _Well, you **are **being stabbed_, her mind informed her unnecessarily.  Before too much blood could flow from the wound, Susana carefully introduced the tube into the needle and threaded it in.  Lisa stared down at her chest in horror:  the needle and tube went in just above her breast, but she could feel the tube moving inside her body.  It was the most bizarre sort of invasion she had ever experienced.  With practice, Susana slipped the needle free, leaving only the tube in place.  Dark red blood began to flow from the short tube's end.  Expertly, Susana filled the three wine glasses and then capped off the end of the tube.  

                "That's a cardiac catheter, Cousin Lisa," she said by way of explanation.  "The tube in there has been inserted into the vena cava.  The end is actually inside your heart.  If I so cared to, I could remove your entire blood supply, right out of this tube." 

                Lisa stared at her, stricken with shock and horror.  It felt like a nail driven into her chest, even though the needle was gone.  Her mouth worked.  

                "Ah, but I don't plan on killing you.  But do keep it in mind.  I do so despise rudeness, and when I hear rudeness I tend to do things I may regret later."  Susana favored her with a smile showing perfect white teeth."  

                Susana grasped DeGraff's wine glass.  "They say blood is thicker than water," she said meditatively.  "Do you think that's so?" She held it to his lips.  DeGraff closed his eyes and drank.  When Susana took the glass from his lips, he shuddered.  

                When it came Starling's turn, she did not try to fight her cousin.  The taste of her own blood on her tongue was salty and warm.  Her gorge rose as a corner of her mind whispered to her what she was drinking.  

                _Don't think about it,_ she answered that voice, and swallowed.  She took in a long, sobbing breath and lowered her head.  

                Susana chuckled.  "Why, Cousin Lisa," she said.  "Losing three glasses of blood shouldn't hurt you any.  Please."  

                Lisa fought the urge to sob in front of the monster.  "You're…insane," she whispered, shuddering.  

                "Nonsense."  Susana raised her own glass and swirled it under his nose as if it was the fine wine she had poured next to it.  She held up the glass to the candles and studied the color.  Then, she drank it down.  With a silk napkin, she carefully wiped her cousin's arterial blood from her lips.  

                Starling had to be careful.  If she antagonized her cousin, she had little doubt that Susana would kill her.  The image of Susana's perfectly manicured thumbnail appeared in her mind, working under the cap of the tube and flicking it off.  She envisioned the FBI agents perusing her gray, drained body.  

                "Susana, I don't know what you're planning," she began, "but it won't work." 

                Susana raised a perfectly shaped brow.  "_Au contraire,_" she said.  "Agent DeGraff lives about sixty miles away from where you learned the perils of following too close.  Really, Cousin Lisa.  I'd think you knew more about me by now.  And where are your manners?  You have yet to compliment Agent DeGraff on his home." 

                "It's lovely, sir," Starling said quickly to mollify her cousin.  

                "Thank you," he said in a choked and terrified voice.  

                "Of course, I'm afraid you'll not own one like it.  You'd never afford it on an FBI agent's salary," Susana observed. "While you were sleeping, Agent DeGraff and I had some wonderful conversations.  It turns out that he had been taking money from drug smugglers while he was in the field offices….,"  She chuckled.  "And the fact that you pursued me even though I had your tormentor in tow suggests that you would not stoop to such a level."  

                Lisa Starling, who in her brief FBI career had never accepted a bribe, turned and glared at the man seated next to her.  

                "You know," she said to DeGraff, "I don't know what your problem is.  I don't know if it's just me or with women in general.  But every time you cut me down, every time you reminded me that I wasn't a real profiler, I didn't do anything.  So why was it?" 

                DeGraff, who realized this was most likely going to be his deathbed confession, thought past his fear and sighed.  

                "I've seen some horrible things," he said.  "You know.  Really, really terrible things.   Women raped and murdered.  Kids murdered. Women shouldn't see such things."  

                Susana pulled her cart closer.  Under where the medical-supply bag had sat, there was a single-burner cooker and a container of LP gas.  She reached down around DeGraff and carefully removed his cummerbund.  Under it, the flesh of his stomach rose hairy and undisturbed.  The edge of his shirt was ragged where Susana had carefully cut it off.  She pushed his chair back.  

                "Yes," Susana said thoughtfully.  "In our discussions, Agent DeGraff owned up to his disapproval of women in law enforcement."  In her other hand, she held a 9mm pistol which she aimed at DeGraff for a moment.  Then she booted the clip out.  It fell with a clatter to the floor. Susana placed the pistol on the table between him and Lisa.  

                She lifted a scalpel from the tray and held it in her hand for a moment.  Lisa stared at the shiny point hypnotically.   Her attention was torn:  part of her said to reach for the Glock between her knife and DeGraff's fork. The red indicator was on, indicating that there was a bullet in the chamber.  Susana had removed the clip, so there would be only one, but a shot was a shot.  Another part of her could not be torn from the scalpel, because she knew what was going to happen could not be good.  

                DeGraff whimpered.  "Please," he said.  "I take it back." 

                "You needn't and can't take back what you truly think, Agent DeGraff," Susana said smoothly.  "It is what you think, even if it'll get you in trouble at this table.  Now what was it you said to me?" 

                DeGraff whined, an animal sound of pure mortal terror.  

                "I remember," Susana sounded pleased.  "You said, '_Women don't belong in law enforcement.  They don't have the guts for it.'_"

                The scalpel danced delicately down, and then slit a thin line across DeGraff's belly.  Although Susana had fed her cousin a Vicodin before dinner, DeGraff received no such pharmaceutical relief.  He strained against the duct tape holding him to the chair.   

                Susana cut another cross incision and then donned a pair of latex gloves.  Carefully, she removed the great gray ropy mass of DeGraff's intestines from the cross-shaped cut in his midsection.  She removed three long tubes and cut them free.  DeGraff moaned and threw himself about in the chair.  

                Susana dipped each piece of intestine in a milk sauce and then carefully breaded them.  She put her bloody gloves in DeGraff's coat pocket.  She transferred the portions of intestine to the cooker and lit the flame with an audible _whump_.  She added olive oil to the cooker and swiftly fried the pieces in the cooker.   

                "I do hope something fried appeals to your Southern palate," Susana said thoughtfully to her cousin.  

                Lisa was pale and weak.  Her jaw was loose as she watched the horror going on in front of her.  She was helpless to do or say a thing, even though she was not sure what she would have done if she was not handcuffed.  

                Susana carefully placed a loop of fried intestine on each person's plate.  She leaned over her cousin and removed her handcuffs.  She did take the gun and move it over to DeGraff's other side.  Lisa tried not to show her disappointment.  If she could lunge over and grab it, she might tip the chair over, but she could still fire from the ground.  

                "Agent DeGraff, would you say grace?" Susana asked politely.  

                DeGraff moaned in pain.  

                "Umm…Heavenly Father, we thank you for this food we are about to receive…," he mumbled.  "Please don't kill me and please let Starling go.  In his name, amen."  

                Susana shrugged.  "Well done.  Now please, eat. "  She lifted her fork to her own lips and then stopped.  

                "Neither of you are eating," she said, seemingly troubled.  "Agent DeGraff, I do understand that your hands are out of commission, and so that's all right.  But Cousin Lisa, I declare, have you no manners?"  Her thumb made a flicking gesture.  

                Lisa stared at her cousin for some time, knowing full well what Susana meant to flick.  She cut a piece carefully from the tube on her plate and lifted her fork to her lips.  The meat was not bad, although she knew what it was.  With a great act of will, she placed her fork in her mouth and chewed.  Something gritty slid from the open end of the tube in her mouth.  It occurred to her that she was eating something DeGraff had already eaten and nausea pressed her stomach hard.  

                _Don't throw up.  If you throw up, she'll flick the tube and that's it.  Don't throw up. _

She repeated it as a mantra in her mind.  It helped.  _Don't throw up.  Don't throw up_.  Chew. Chew.  Swallow.  

                Susan held DeGraff's fork to his lips.  He took it the way a horse does, by pulling off the piece with his lips.  He chewed it and swallowed. He closed his eyes and shook.  

                "It's excellent," he said in a dusty and toneless voice. 

                "I'm glad you like it," Susana said, the attentive hostess.  "Of course, you'll only be able to enjoy the taste."  

                Susana rose then and prepared another helping for them all.  This time, it came with a side of baby carrots coated in sweet butter.  Lisa Starling ate those, her eyes and mind firmly closed.  Susana chuckled.  

                "I see you eat vegetables well," she observed. "I was always terrible at eating them as a child.  You see, my father tended to spoil me, and rarely forced me to eat anything I didn't want to."  

                "Too bad you didn't inherit that from him," Lisa Starling managed as she forced down her second helping of DeGraff's guts.  

                Susana shrugged.  "I said he didn't force _me_.  He did occasionally mandate that others share his cuisine."  

                DeGraff moved in his chair.  Both women looked over at him.  Lisa had a look of sick concern.  Susana seemed mildly amused.  His hands trembled.  

                "Seizures," Susana said mildly.  "He won't last much longer."  

                "You," Lisa said, taking in a long, stabbing breath, "are insane." 

                Susana shook her head.  "Nonsense, dear cousin," she said calmly.  "I simply do to rude people what should have been done in the first place."  

                Lisa moved suddenly, testing her restraints.  Suddenly fury filled her, and in a black rage she screamed.  

                "You _are_ insane!  You can't just kill people whenever you like!" 

                Susana tilted her head and looked interested.  "Why not?" 

                "Because you can't.  Was Lima rude?" 

                "Yes, he was.  I asked him to address me properly.  He refused." 

                "You can't just _kill_ people for that!"  Lisa grabbed up her knife without thinking.  It was quite dull, and she had little opportunity to use it bound to the chair as she was.  Her eyes burned with fury.  

                "Ralph Lima was a good man.  He was my friend.  And you _tortured _and _killed _him." 

                "He was rude and used profanity," Susana said.  Lisa's eyes remained riveted on her cousin's.  She dared not look over at the pistol on the other side of the dying DeGraff.  

                "So what's next?  Are you going to kill me?" 

                "I hadn't planned on it," Susana said delicately, and ate another forkful. 

                Just them, two things happened.  The first was that DeGraff died.  His death was quiet and simple.  After the loss of blood from his wounded gut, he simply sighed, shifted in his chair, and his last breath streamed from his lungs.  

                The second was a distant tinkle of glass.  Both women looked around.  Lisa smiled bitterly. 

                "That's probably HRT," she said venomously.  "You'd better be prepared to go down." 

                Susana produced a silver-plated pistol much like the one lying next to DeGraff's corpse.  "I'm prepared, cousin."  She smiled and put it down by her plate.  

                The sound was not repeated.  Susana looked over at the dead DeGraff.  

                "I'll just take out the trash," she said, and rose.  DeGraff's chair was on wheels, and it was a simple matter for her to wheel the corpse into the kitchen.  As she rolled the corpse away, a long, gray line of intestines trailed behind him.  It caught on a wheel and Susana bumped it over.  

                Lisa turned away, feeling sick.  

                In the hallway appeared a figure.  Lisa's eyes widened.  

                Ardelia Mapp crept into the dining room, her pistol at the ready.  She raised a finger to her lips to _shhh_ Lisa.  

                As Susana returned from the kitchen, Ardelia covered the distance between the two in seconds.  Susana was quick to react, but Ardelia was between her and the table.  Ardelia struck her with the muzzle of her automatic.  Susana fell and landed on the floor.  Ardelia was on her in a trice, striking her again with the muzzle of the pistol and cuffing her quickly.  

                In a few seconds, it was all over.  It dawned on Lisa that a small-town police chief had done what a trained HRT squad could not:  put the cuffs on Susana Alvarez Lecter.  

                "I'm tied to the chair," she said.  "Let me out.  We'll bring her in." 

                Ardelia looked over at her and grinned savagely.  Her face was the face of the warhag.  There was an ugly, bitter expression on it.  

                "Bring her in? Not a chance, kiddo.  This little bitch owes me some payback."  

                She hauled Susana to her feet and bent her at the waist.  Susana's face slammed into the table.  The china on the table jumped with a clatter.  Ardelia's lips split back in a caveman-like grin of triumph.  

                "I have waited so long to do this," she said, and brought the muzzle down on Susana's face a third time.  

                "So long," Ardelia repeated.  "For Roland…for my _career_…for your goddam father and what he did to Clarice."  She grabbed one of Susana's fingers and bent it back three-quarters of the way.  Susana grimaced but did not make a sound.  

                "You'll scream," Ardelia grinned savagely.  "You'll scream until your throat _bursts._"  Her voice was gritty and lined with hate.  "And you'll beg for death.  But you know what?  You won't get it.  Not until I am satisfied." 

                She grabbed a candle off the table with her free hand and held the flickering yellow flame to Susana's palm.  By bending her finger back, she was able to keep the heel of Susana's hand in the flame.  Susana let out a choked off, pained noise.  When Ardelia finally released her, there was a bubbling, blackened patch the size of a quarter on the heel of her hand.  

                Lisa watched this with horror and closed her eyes.  If Ardelia had wanted to kill Susana, she could have understood that. She had a grievance, after all.  But Lisa's mind quailed at the idea of torturing her to death.  Of tormenting a handcuffed captive with unbridled sadistic zeal.  No one deserved to be tortured to death.  Not even Susana Alvarez Lecter.  

                She reached across the table for the pistol.  It felt good and heavy in her hand.  Lisa closed her eyes.  

                _I'm an idiot.  I'm an idiot.  I'm an idiot. _

But she was not an idiot. She was the guardian of the lambs.  

                Lisa took a deep breath, extended her arms, and aimed the pistol at Ardelia.  

                "Ardelia," she said calmly, "no." 

                Ardelia glanced up.  She took in the pistol aimed at her and pulled Susana up to shield her.  

                "Are you crazy?" she asked.  "Do you know what this woman has done?" 

                "And we'll take her in and let the courts deal with it," Lisa said calmly.  "No torture.  That's not how things go." 

                Ardelia's face twisted into a mask of hate.  "You're not gonna shoot me, kiddo," she said.  She released her grip on the struggling Susana to grab her own pistol.  "You're not going to do it.  You don't have the guts."  

                _That's what DeGraff said,_ Lisa thought.  _He was wrong and so are you. _

"Put the gun down," Lisa said.  

                "No.  I will not be cheated out of this by some _kid_ fresh out of the Academy," Ardelia sneered.  Her own gun came to bear on Lisa.

                The report of the gun filled the small room.  Lisa screamed.  

                Ardelia Mapp fell to the floor, Lisa put down the pistol, its slide held open, and looked around for a sharp blade.  Susana tried to stand up.  

                "Don't," Lisa warned.  She saw the scalpel still on the table and grabbed it, hurriedly cutting the ropes tying her to the chair.  Once she was free, she grabbed the clip from where it lay on the floor and put it into the pistol.  She walked around the table to where Susana sat and Ardelia lay.  

                "Take these cuffs off me," Susana said tiredly. 

                The muzzle of the pistol did not move off Susana's face.  "Like hell I will," Lisa Starling said.  "You're under arrest.  I'm taking you in."  

                "I just want my bag," Susana said.  "Please.  My hand hurts.  You've got the gun."  

                Lisa grabbed the pistol sitting by Susana's plate and tried to put it in her waistband before discovering she had no waistband to put it in.  She settled for putting the gun far away.  Her eyes moved back and forth between Susana and the bag.  

                "Put my hands in front of me, if you prefer.  All I want is the gauze pad and antibiotic out of my bag."  

                Lisa thought about it for a moment and picked up the bag.  Susana nodded.  

                "If you fuck with me I'll shoot you dead," Lisa threatened. 

                "I'm not going to fight you," Susana said.  "You've got the gun.  I'm not dumb.  But finish the job."  

                Lisa tilted her head, unconsciously mimicking her cousin.  

                "Finish the job?" she asked. 

                "On Mapp.  I can hear her breathing.  Kill her." 

                Lisa shook her head.  "No.  I'm not a cold-blooded killer."  

                She put the bag in front of Susana and then looked her over.  Her hands trembled.  The thought of setting this monster free terrified her.  But Susana did not seem to want to fight her.  

                Her eyes bulging, her tongue dry, and part of her mind screaming at her, Lisa Starling placed the key to the handcuffs in her cousin's uninjured hand. She backed off two paces and kept the pistol aimed right at her cousin's nose.  

                "Thank you, Lisa," Susana Alvarez said tiredly, and set about bandaging her hand.  When she was done, Lisa waggled the muzzle of the pistol.  

                "Cuffs back on.  And throw me the key." 

                Susana closed the cuffs around her wrists and threw the key at her cousin.  Lisa ignored it and let it fall, satisfied that she seemed to be cooperating.  She saw a phone in the kitchen and moved towards it.  

                "I'm going to call the police now," she told Susana.  "If you move you'll have a few new holes." 

                Susana raised her manacled hands in a peaceful gesture.  

                Just then, Ardelia Mapp sat up with a roar of insensate rage.  Her pistol came to bear on Starling.  Lisa's pistol moved automatically from the handcuffed suspect to the armed one.  

                The reports of the two pistols sounded like one.  Miraculously, Susana Alvarez Lecter was not hit, despite being in the crossfire.  Ardelia Mapp's brains splattered on the wall behind her in a great hammersmash of blood and gore.  She fell to the floor and did not move.  The tiny hole in her forehead did not seem to add up to the great hole out the back of her head.  

                Something smacked Lisa Starling like the hand of a god.  It felt as if a sledgehammer had hit her in the ribcage.  She stared wide-eyed at her cousin.  

                From the entry wound in her chest, there fell one, two, three drops of blood.  

                _Don't drop the pistol, _her mind gibbered in an echo to her Academy firearms instructor.  _Don't ever drop your firearm._  

                Lisa's knees unhinged.  Her cousin rose slowly and picked up the doctor's bag.  She walked primly over to where the key had fallen and removed her manacles, frowning at them as if they were jewelry she did not approve of.  

                Lisa fell over onto her back and gasped for air.  She could feel a great heaviness in her chest.  There was no pain.  She saw her cousin's face far above her, as a pallbearer staring down into her grave.  She tried to raise the pistol to point it at her, but her arm refused to obey her mind's dictates.  As Susana removed something from the bag, Lisa tried to move the gun again. 

                She could see her cousin's face, but everything around it was swiftly being covered by a black vortex.  It started at the corners of her vision and then expanded inwards.  She could see her cousin's lips moving, but could not focus on what she was saying.  Then the vortex expanded further, blotting out even Susana's face, and covered everything, and dragged Lisa Starling down into the dark depths.  


	10. The Good Doctor

            Consciousness came back slowly to Lisa.  There was not as much pain this time.  She was back in the bedroom she had been in before.  Her mind was dull and fuzzy.  She vaguely remembered a dinner, and DeGraff dying, and Ardelia Mapp coming in.  And then she couldn't remember much after that.  

                Susana Alvarez Lecter appeared over her, something silvery in her hand.  _That _sight jumped Lisa's consciousness forward and she tried to move.  She found she could not.  Her wrists and ankles were tied down.  Susana's expression was neither sardonic nor sadistic.  She actually seemed concerned.  

                "You're awake," she observed.  "Good.  How's your chest?" 

                "It hurts," Lisa said thickly.  Her tongue seemed not to want to move.  

                "I'm not surprised," Susana said calmly.  "You did get shot, after all.  And I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of painkillers, other than Vicodin."  The pill bottle came out again.  Two pills, this time.  

                Lisa shook her head and tried to shift her body.  A fresh bolt of pain flashed up her and she groaned.  

                "No Vicodin?  This is going to hurt, Lisa."  

                "No," Lisa grunted.  "You can't…you're not…you'll kill me." 

                Susana Alvarez Lecter looked insulted.  Lisa forced her eyes to focus on what was in her hand.  It was a set of surgical forceps.  Not a scalpel.  That was good.   She noticed that Susana wore a pair of latex gloves, as she had when she removed DeGraff's guts.

                "I'm not going to kill you," Susana said darkly.  "If I was going to, I'd have done it already." 

                Lisa grimaced and worked her jaw.  "No…that's not what I mean…you have no medical background,…don't know what you're doing." 

                Susana's eyes flashed.  Her mouth turned down primly as if she had been wrongfully accused of wearing white shoes after Labor Day.   

            "Bite your tongue, Lisa Starling," she said.  

                "You're not a doctor," Lisa wheezed.  

                Susana put the forceps in her other hand and held a scalpel in her right.  She leaned over Lisa's body with a look of concentration on her face.  Lisa's eyes widened in fear.  She glanced down at her body and saw a sterile sheet over the wound, a hole in it so that Susana could work.  

                In a distracted tone, Susana said, "Not _yet _I'm not."  

                Lisa blinked her eyes and bit her tongue to help herself wake up.  "…Yet?" she asked.  

                "I have a year of medical school under my belt.  Would've been two, except for that incident with Chief Mapp and the truck.  Plus I worked at an ER when I was in college," Susana answered.  She opened the wound a bit with the scalpel, then reached in with the forceps and gripped the bullet firmly.  Lisa Starling ground her molars together as Susana tried to get a grip on the bullet.  It slipped a few times. The pain was immense, nauseating, weakening.  It gripped her entire midsection and made her feel faint.  Her sight wavered.  Bright spots danced before her eyes.

                Susana seemed not to notice: her mind was concentrated on her work.  The damn bullet was slippery.  She had to open up the wound a bit more and finally got purchase on the bullet.  Satisfied, she pulled it out and displayed the dull piece of gray metal in the shiny jaws of her forceps to Lisa.  Then she dropped it in a metal bowl nearby.  It made a loud _spang _as it fell in.  

                Next, Lisa watched her cousin arrange a surgical needle and thread, scissors, and a dressing on her abdomen.  Her hands clenched into nervous fists as she watched Susana begin to work.  But she seemed to know what she was doing, and didn't seem terribly interested in hurting Lisa.  Starling also had to remind herself that she didn't have much choice, tied down as she was.  

                "Could I…I changed my mind on those Vico…um…Vic…you know," Starling rasped.  Susana looked over at her, slightly annoyed.  

                "Yes," Susana said in that same distracted tone.  Starling placed it, finally.  It was the way every ER doctor in the world talked when they wanted you to shut up and let them work.  But thankfully, Susana dropped two white oval tablets into her cousin's mouth and then held a straw to her lips so she could drink the water.  

                "You…a doctor.  It's surprising." 

                "Yes, I know."  Susana reached down into the wound with the forceps.  "This is going to hurt for a moment, but I want to close your lung up."  A blast of pain radiated out from Starling's chest.  Lights danced in her vision for several long moments.  She gasped in sheer, mortal agony.  Then it was gone.  

                "I decided to try helping people for a change," Susana said by way of explanation.  "After that, who knows.  Maybe I'll try feeling guilty for a while."  

                The Vicodin was not yet kicking in, and Lisa was still gasping from the pain.  Her mouth curled up in a bitter grin, though.  

                "…bullshit, Susana,….," she said.  

                "You're probably right, Agent Starling," Susana Alvarez Lecter said.  "It's for my papa.  Plus, you know better how to hurt people when you know how to heal them."

                "…you're killing me,…" Lisa clamped her eyes shut.  

                Susana looked her cousin in the eyes with a look of displeasure.  "Well, then, maybe next time you'll take pain meds the first time they're offered," she said archly, not without logic.    

                Lisa lapsed into a funk of pain as her cousin carefully closed her lung.  When Susana started in on the skin, suturing that expertly shut, the pain meds had thankfully begun to kick in.  Lisa took an experimental breath.  

                "Are you going to kill me?" she asked. 

                Susana shook her head.  "No.  I do owe you for saving me from Mapp, and that's not a debt I feel comfortable owing.  But I think we're square now."  She pulled the thread taut and laced it again through Lisa's skin.  

                "Mapp…is she dead?" 

                "Of  _course_ she's dead.  You blew her brains out, Lisa.  Don't you remember?" 

                Lisa shook her head.  

                "Well, you did.  I took the liberty of wiping your prints off the gun."  

                Lisa goggled at her wordlessly. 

                "What's one more murder charge to me?" Susana asked quizzically.   "No sense ruining _your _record, now is there?"  

                Susana reached into her bag and removed a syringe.  She brandished it at Lisa.  Lisa's eyes widened.  

                "What is that?" Starling asked. 

                "This?  It's a new sedative called Jacarin.  In the ER, they call it Jack 'em in."  Susana smiled down at her cousin.  "Quite possibly the most useful drug in emergency medicine.  It's new, it's effective, and you'll like it quite a bit."  The needle stung Lisa's arm.  

                "Has some pain-killing properties, some tranquilizing properties, plus you can put a raging bull elephant to sleep with this stuff," Susana explained.  "Patients love it because nothing hurts.  Or if it does, it's not as bad.  Doctors love it because it calms down the patients.  Plus, it has some memory-fogging effects.  Nothing too bad, but you won't remember much about tonight.  It'll all be a nice…gray…fog."  

                Lisa tried to move away from the needle, but her cousin simply gripped her arm.  The drug took effect quickly as it sped through her veins.  Everything did seem foggy.  Far away.  She was distant from it all.  

                "You're stable, cousin Lisa," Susana said calmly.  She stood up and placed a sheet of paper on Lisa's chest.  Lisa tried to glance down on it, but her eyes stubbornly refused to resolve the writing there on it.  "So I'll just take my leave of you now.  Med school awaits, you know." 

                "Buenos Aires…we'll be watching,…" Lisa wheezed.  

                Susana pursed her lips and shook her head.  She leaned down over Starling's face and smiled.  

                "Oh, no no no.  I love Argentina, and it will always be home, but the best medical schools are in the United States, and by now you should know that I _insist_ on the best."  She rose again and picked up a black leather purse.  Coach, Lisa noticed.  She should have known.  

                "Now you take care to leave me be, Agent Starling.  I have a few more years of med school, an internship, and a residency to finish.  So I'll promise you this, dear cousin:  no more killing, at least for the time being.  I'm a busy girl, you know." 

                Lisa turned her head over to watch her departing cousin.  The drug made her tongue thick and her thoughts slow to come.  She knew she couldn't promise her cousin to leave her be, but Susana knew that.  

There were things she wanted to ask, things she wanted to know, but her brain would not think the words and her tongue would not form them.  

                A door slammed.  An engine started.  Starling tried to roll over and gaped stupidly at the ropes binding her.  Her eyes slipped closed.  

                When she awoke, there were people in the room with her.  Black-fatigued people with guns in their hands.  Above her was a paramedic examining her wound.  She blinked her eyes and looked up at him dumbly.  _Kinda cute, _she thought. 

                The paramedic turned his head.  "She's awake," he called to someone.  Then he looked back down at her.  

                "Agent Starling?  You with us?" 

                Lisa moved her jaw and wet her tongue.  "Yes," she said thickly.  

                Agent Laura Miehns approached her bedside, the cast on her leg and crutch under her arm barely slowing her down.  

                "You all right, Starling?" 

                "I think so," Starling replied.  

                "Who shot you? Lecter?" 

                Lisa tried to remember.  Everything seemed hazy.  She remembered DeGraff, and she remembered something about Mapp, and she remembered her cousin with a gun, and she remembered Susana leaning over her and hurting her a hell of a lot.  And that was about it.  But she knew somehow that Susana had not shot her. 

                "No….Mapp," she said.  

                The paramedic carefully lifted her from the bed and placed her down on a stretcher.  This was the first realization that Lisa had that she was no longer bound.  Another paramedic joined him and they began fastening her to it.  

                "You can question her at the hospital, Agent Miehns," he said authoritatively.  "We have to treat her."  

                Then the ambulance drove off with Lisa Starling, into the night.  

…

                FIVE YEARS LATER: 

                Special Agent Lisa Starling, twenty-six years old, assigned to the Boston field office of the FBI, checked her gun again and holstered it.  She was in a squad room of the Boston Police Department.  Mixed BPD and FBI personnel sat around the squadroom.  They had organized themselves into loose groups based on affiliation.  

                Lisa sighed.  _Only one more of these goddam arrest extravaganzas and I'm out of here.  _ She touched the thigh pocket of her black BDU pants.  In it was the coveted letter she had waited so long for. 

                _Dear Lisa, _

_                Per our discussion of April 7th, you will be joining the staff at Behavioral Sciences as a profiler effective July 1.  I would've liked to bring you in earlier, but our budget for the new fiscal year doesn't kick in until then. You'll be receiving the official letter shortly, but you ought to know – you do have the job._

_                You had asked me about the possibility of hypnosis or drug therapy to bring out your memories of that night at DeGraff's home.  In answer to that question:  Susana Alvarez Lecter is long gone, and I'm loath to put you to that risk without some kind of payoff.  We've got people searching for her, and eventually she'll pop up.  I do have to ask why you're so sure she won't kill again.  _

_                At any rate, once you're here, we can discuss this further.  I hear you're going in on the Palikov arrest. Good luck.  Those Russians can be vicious.  _

_                Don Quincy,_

_                Chief of Behavioral Sciences_

_                Quantico, VA _

Yes, it wasn't the official "You are ordered to report" bla bla bla, but it satisfied Lisa.  It had taken almost forty years, but a Starling had finally gotten into Behavioral Sciences on a real, honest-to-God, permanent position.  The fact that it was a personal letter was better, she thought.  Her soon-to-be-boss actually cared enough to drop her a line. 

                But she had one more arrest to make first.  Starling already knew everything a law officer could be expected to know about Dimitri and Natalia Palikov, so she didn't pay a lot of attention until the agent in charge of the raid actually pointed her out.  

                "Now, Natalia can be a bitch," he pointed out.  "She's also got a crack team of lawyers, so Agent Starling will be actually taking her into custody.  Natalia's claimed sexual harassment from male officers before, so we're just going to head it off at the pass."  

                "Is she violent?" one of the Boston boys asked.  

                The agent in charge pointed her out.  "Starling, you want to say a little on that?" 

                Starling stood up and felt self-conscious as twenty men watched her.  "She can be violent," Starling said.  "Once she's in the cuffs, she's as sweet as can be.  Until then, watch out.  She likes to hide weapons on her, small guns, little knives."  

                "You going to need backup to take her down?" the same BPD officer asked.  

                He didn't seem to be snide about it, just asking, so Starling shrugged.  "I'll try to take her down myself.  If she doesn't cooperate, I'll call on you fine gentlemen to help me.  Just make sure to keep your hands off her girlie parts, or she'll sue."  She grinned.  

                She sat down again and thought.  The Palikovs were running a regular old pharmaceutical operation out of their Back Bay mansion.  They left coke to the Columbians, but not much else.  They had a vast crank and amphetamine empire in the city.  Rival dealers were often found tortured or shot.  Most of the BOD narcotics squad knew who she was.  

                There were some DEA boys around too.  Starling watched them chit-chat.  She had made sure to study up beforehand on the Palikovs:  she knew what sort of toothpaste they used and what perfumes Natalia liked.  Natalia liked the expensive stuff:  Chanel no. 5, usually.  This last-minute briefing was boring.  

                Finally, they were dispatched in the vans off to Back Bay. Starling looked around at houses she would never be able to afford.  The Palikovs' mansion was located in the heart of Back Bay, and Starling hoped that they went peaceably.  Shooting in a neighborhood like this was bad.  One might end up investigating thefts in military bases in the Arctic Circle.  The rich of Boston did not want gunfire in their back yards.  

                The first part of the raid went quite smoothly.  They burst in the door, presented their warrant to the maid who answered the door, cuffed her, and settled her in.  Starling didn't think they were going to hold the maid, which was good.  It was her employers they wanted.  

                She ran up the stairs, just behind the heavily armed Boston SWAT squad.  Her weapon was out and she tracked back and forth for her prey.  The place was grand, she thought.  Crank must be a great business.  Sculptures and prints decorated the hallway.  The carpet was a fine gray material.  The place dripped money and class.  Starling didn't like it.  It reminded her of her cousin too much.  

                If you had asked her, Lisa Starling would have told you that she did not think about the night she was found on a bed in Peter DeGraff's guest bedroom, drugged and restrained.  She would tell you that she did not think about the bullet wound – the _already treated_ bullet wound – nor the fact that the ER doctor who saw her told her he could not have done better himself.  

                Privately, Lisa could not _stop_ thinking about her cousin.  She racked her brains for the final words her cousin had said to her before she left.  All she could remember of the night was the dinner with and of DeGraff, and then she vaguely remembered Mapp's entry.  Forensics believed that Susana had shot Mapp.  Lisa had difficulty recalling, but she doubted it somehow.  At night, she was haunted by memories of Susana leaning over her, of Mapp torturing Susana, and then of herself shooting Mapp, and she kept waking up mouthing the phrase _the guardian of the lambs. _

                But the guardian of the lambs had another wolf to hunt now, so she quit thinking about Susana and ran up the stairs.  The squad saw Dimitri in the second-floor office he used to run his empire.  Starling heard the shower running and knew where her prey was.  She burst into the master bedroom and looked around.  Huge bed, exercise equipment, and an incredible view.  There was a white door off the bedroom that was slightly ajar.  Steam billowed from it.  Starling walked towards it, her gun up, and checked her corners religiously.  

                Natalia Palikova stood in the bathroom, dressed only in a white terrycloth bathrobe.  Her face and hair were wet from her shower.  She tilted her head at Starling when she saw her in the doorway.  

                "Agent Starling.  Why, hello," she said in with only the faintest Russian accent.  

                "Natalia, you're under arrest.  Turn around and keep your hands where I can see them."  Starling noticed that Natalia was wearing silver nail polish.  

                Natalia turned around and raised her hands.  With her left hand, Starling reached back for her cuffs.  She held one of the silver rings high and approached Natalia from behind.  

                When Starling reached out to take her right wrist, Natalia pivoted.  Her left hand reached out for Starling's face.  In place of the more standard acrylic fake nails, her left hand was decorated with custom-made surgical-steel blades attached to her fingers with Krazy Glue.  She slashed Starling's eyes and grinned viciously.  

                Starling screamed, but she still brought down the smaller Russian woman.  Her eyes clamped firmly shut.  Blind, she jammed the muzzle of the 9mm against the base of Natalia's skull.  

                "One false move," she hissed, "and I'll blow you away."  

                Even blind, Starling did her job.  She located Natalia's one wrist and cuffed it.  With the pistol at her skull, Natalia was most cooperative in giving her her other wrist.  

                "I do hope there's work in the FBI for a blind agent," Natalia cooed against her tile.  

                Starling's heart pounded.  She was afraid to open her eyes.  But she still had a job to do, and other than the fact that she was blind, she felt pretty much OK.  She grabbed her radio headset.  

                "This is Starling.  I'm in the master bath.  I've got Natalia in cuffs, but I'm hurt.  I need assistance."  

                Almost immediately, it seemed, there were thundering footsteps and then there were strong hands on her upper arms.  It made her think of Susana and she panicked for a moment.  Then she took a deep breath.  These were allies.  A gabble of voices confused her.  Someone was lifting her off of Natalia and guiding her over to the bed.  It was soft and yielding as she sat on it.     

                "Starling, I'm Boyle, from BPD.  I asked you the questions in the squad room.  You remember?" 

                 "Yes," Starling managed.  

                "You're bleeding a little but it looks okay.  Ambulance is on its way." 

                "Thanks, guys," she stuttered.  "Where's Natalia?" 

                "They're bringing her out to a squad car.   She got you in the eyes?" 

                "Yeah.  It hurts.  I'm afraid to open them." 

                "Don't.  Ambulance will be here in a minute."  

                Starling knew that some of the patter was just that, patter.  Meant to calm her down until the doctors got to her.  _Am I going to be blind? _She thought.  The idea made her pulse race, adrenalin flowing uselessly into her system.  

                Boyle and another officer took her by the arms and guided her down the stairs gently.  She could hear other officers on the stairs, but they made way for their wounded comrade.  She could tell when they walked her over the stoop and let her sit on the bumper of the van.  

                "Starling's hurt," she heard Boyle say.  "Fucking Natalia got her in the eyes." 

                "That's attempted murder on a law officer," someone else said.  "Starling, you okay?" 

                "All except my eyes," Starling said.  

                Then she could hear a siren and knew immediately it wasn't a police siren.  She heard the rattle of a gurney and equipment.  

                "Agent Starling?  We're the paramedics.  Want to let us have a look at you?" 

                An agent came up and quietly asked to take Starling's gun.  Despite herself, she felt eerily calm.  She handed it over without complaint.  No reason to bring it to the hospital.  She could feel them putting her on the gurney and strapping her down.  The ambulance rolled away with her to the hospital.  

                _Déjà vu_, Lisa Starling thought.  

                On the ride, one of the paramedics shone a light through her closed lids.  She could see it redly, and rejoiced.  Maybe she would be okay after all.  They started an IV and gave her some pain meds.  

                In the ER, they seemed to know she was coming.  She was handed off to an ER doctor quickly.  He leaned over her.  She could feel his body heat radiating off him and smell the antiseptic on his skin.    

                "Hi, I'm Dr. Carter," he said.  He sounded young.   "Looks like you had some trouble with your eyes."  

                He gave her a quick exam, and she tried opening her eyes.  It hurt a lot, and she couldn't help but have nightmarish thoughts about her eye fluid leaking out.  Her fingers tightened down on the steel bar on the side of the gurney.  She closed her eyes again when he told her to.  

                "All right," he said.  "We're going to take you up to surgery now,  Agent Starling.  Don't worry about a thing." 

                "_Surgery?"_ Starling said, and tried to sit up.  

                "Yep.  We want to get those eyes fixed.  It's not too bad, though.  I've seen worse. You should recover your sight with no problems."  

                "Wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  No one ever said anything about that." 

                His tone sounded concerned.  "Agent Starling, please.  Your pulse is up over ninety."  

                "_Of course it is, I just got my eyes slashed!"  _

His voice came again, but not to her.  "Abby, let's give Agent Starling ten cc's of Jacarin,"  Then he turned back to her.  "I'm gonna give you something to help you relax." 

                "Jack 'em in," she said, and was suddenly afraid.  

                "I'm going to leave now and let the nurse get you in a gown," he said.  A few moments passed in which he must have been looking at her pistol belt.  "Are you carrying a gun, Agent Starling?" 

                "No," she admitted.  "I left my gun with another agent.  Figured you didn't want it."  

                "Good."  She heard the shriek of plastic rings on metal rods.  

                Then the nurse was there, carefully helping her to undress.  It felt strange.  She could still move her body and did not need the help to move.  But she could not see, so her own body was unfamiliar terrain for her.  How weird to try and take off your boots or pants without seeing them.  

                "I'm giving you the Jacarin now," the nurse said.  "It'll help you relax." 

                "And screw up my memory, I know."  

                The nurse seemed surprised. "It has had that effect, yes.  Now let me take that belt off. There's nothing explosive on it, is there?" 

                "No," Lisa said.  Then, unable to resist, she said, "I wouldn't drop it if I were you, though."  

                She heard the nurse's sharp intake of breath and grinned.  

                The nurse helped her fasten the gown and gave her a blanket.  Lisa Starling laid back against the stretcher and sighed.  From self-confident armed agent to blinded, helpless child in less than twenty minutes.  And it was about to get worse.  

                They took her up to surgery.  Lisa didn't try to open her eyes.  The Jacarin coursed through her veins, calming her down.  She was resigned to her fate.  There were voices above her, some addressed to her, mostly to each other.  

                A warm hand on hers, giving her a quick squeeze.  "Good luck, Agent Starling."  

                Then she was in the O.R.  It was cold, and Lisa shivered.  She felt hands under her body moving her onto the table.  She cooperated as much as she could.  Another voice above her:  "_She's already had 10 cc's Jacarin.  10 cc's pentathol to put her down."  _  

                The same voice boomed above her.  "Lisa? Can you hear me?" 

                "Yes," she said in a nervous tone.  

                "Good.  The surgeons are just finishing scrubbing up now.  I'm going to give you some pentathol and make you sleepy."  

                _I know what pentathol is, you dork, _ she thought.   _Don't talk to me like I'm five._

                Latex gloved hands on her eyes opened them. She could see a fuzzy, distorted image of capped and masked faces above her.  She sucked in air:  it was uncomfortable to hold her eyes open.  Other hands were busily strapping her to the table.  The anesthesiologist held a black rubber mask over her nose and mouth.  He told her to breathe deeply and count backwards from twenty.  

                Two more faces appeared over her.  One appeared to be a man's.  He spoke and attracted her attention.  

                "Hi, Agent Starling, I'm Dr. Windsor.  We're going to take care of you."  He indicated the face next to him.  

                His next words made her blood chill.  

                "This is Dr. Lecter.  She'll be doing your surgery."  

                Maroon eyes she had seen before gleamed down at her in triumph.  Lisa twisted her face from side to side.  

                "Agent Starling, please stay calm," the anesthesiologist said.  

                Starling took in a deep breath to scream and ended up with a lungful of anesthetic gas.  She tried to raise her hands off the table.  They were strapped down and immovable.  She tried to close her eyes, but they had attached some sort of frame to her head to keep them open.  

                Above her, Susana Alvarez Lecter stuck out her hand to the surgical nurse.  

                "Scalpel and probes, please," she said. 

                "She's not under yet, Dr. Lecter," the nurse said.  

                "She will be in a moment," Susana said.  

                _No!_ Lisa tried to scream into the rubber mask surrounding her nose and mouth.  Her hands drummed briefly against the straps.  It came out more as a breathless infant's cry.  Then everything went black.  

                When Lisa awoke, she was being wheeled back to her room.  She sat up in a panic and reached for her eyes.  Almost immediately, there were hands on her wrists, pulling them down.  She still could not see.  

                "What happened to me?" she demanded.  

                "Agent Starling," her nurse said.  "You had emergency surgery.  You're all right."  

                "I can't see," Starling cried.  "I can't see. What the hell did you people do to me?" 

                "We had to repair your eyes and your eyelids," the nurse said.  "You can't see because there are patches over your eyes."  

                "Why patches?" 

                "We couldn't let you run around with sutures hanging out," the nurse said primly.  She carefully moved Starling from her gurney to her bed.  

                "Who did my surgery?" Starling asked, a bit more calmly.  Maybe it was just a confused memory.  

                "Let's see…it looks like Dr. Lecter."  

                "L-E-C-T-E-R?" Starling spelled.  She tried not to visibly freak out.

                "Nooo," the nurse said thoughtfully.  "You're thinking of that horrible old doctor from years and years ago.  Our Dr. Lektor is very good, and she took great care of you.  And it's spelled L-E-K-T-O-R.  But that's okay.  Lots of patients make that mistake." 

                "I want to call the FBI.  Now. Please."  

                "Agent Starling, you've been out for a while.  It's 11 P.M.  Visiting hours are tomorrow."  

                "No," Starling said.  "Now.  Now now now, goddammit." 

                The nurse sighed.  "Agent Starling, you've just had surgery.  Now you'll have some calls from the FBI tomorrow.  But for now, I'm going to feed you your dinner and then you should get some sleep."  

                "Fuck sleep," Starling said.  "I want to make a phone call and I want it now.  There is a dangerous killer here in this hospital, and I want a phone now."  

                "No, Agent Starling.  Not until your doctor says so." 

                "My doctor _is _the killer," Starling said, and got out of bed.  The nurse tried to fight her, but Starling knew fighting and she did not.  Starling was able to quickly wrestle her to the floor.  The nurse screamed for help.  Almost as quickly as when Starling had needed help, there were people rushing in, hands on her, forcing her into the bed.  She felt leather straps circle her wrists and pinion her in the bed.  

                "Agent Starling, calm down--," 

                "She just freaked out on me--,"

                "Never seen a patient do that post-anesthesia--,"

                A new voice shattered the din.  

                "Okay, people," a voice came authoritatively, "let's all calm down.  Agent Starling just got a little nervous post-anesthesia.  I'll handle it."  Then, she began giving orders.  Starling remained in bed, terrified, and not willing to move.  She knew it.  It was Susana Alvarez Lecter.

                "Let's have another 10 cc's of Jacarin, please.  Agent Starling, I'm going to have a little talk with you.  If you behave, I'll take those restraints off in an hour."  She chuckled.  Starling felt a needle dig into her arm and winced.  

                In a few minutes, it was all over.  Starling could sense her malevolent cousin's presence in the room, although she did not speak.  The nurse came back in and fed her her dinner.  Starling ate it, even though it was horrible.  She did not think her cousin had done anything with her food:  hospital food was its own torture.  Once that was done, the nurse scurried off and left Starling with her doctor.   

Starling's hands flexed in the restraints.  

                "Susana?" she asked calmly.  

                "Why, no," the voice came.  "We haven't been formally introduced yet.  I'm Dr. Alina Lektor.  I did your surgery."  

                "I know who you are," Starling hissed.  

                "You certainly do.  I just told you.  I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else, Agent Starling.  Now look, I'm sorry about the restraints and the drugs, but if you behave, we'll take them off you.  Your surgery went well, and you should recover your sight within a few days."  

                The drugs coursing in her system tranquilized Starling and made her wonder.  Susana would never actually apologize for putting someone in restraints.  Was she wrong? All she had was the voice and a confused memory of maroon eyes.  Maybe it was just a result of the little chemical pharmacy floating through her veins.  Maybe the name was just a hideous coincidence.    

                "Your name is Alina?" she asked.  

                "Indeed, Agent Starling."  

                "Tell me a little about yourself."  

                Dr. Lektor chuckled.  "Not much to tell, really.  I'm a surgical resident here.  Graduated Harvard Medical School, been here ever since."  

                "That's an interesting name you have," Starling observed.  Her hands made fists.  

                "Lektor?  I know.  But I'm not that Dr. Lecter." 

                "Related?" 

                Dr. Lektor chuckled again politely.  "No."  

                "Are you related to _me_?" Starling pressed.  

                "My, you're very stuck on the relative thing, aren't you?  No, Agent Starling, I'm not related to you that I know of."  

                The idea that she had just made a big ass of herself began to fall over Starling.  She blushed.  

                "I see," she said.  "Um…OK…can I be let out of these restraints now?" 

                "Give me ten minutes of good behavior and I'll let you out. Tell you what.  I have a few more patients to check on.  If you need something, call the nurse.  I'll be right back."  Starling heard her footsteps out in the hall. 

                Was she?  Wasn't she?  Starling couldn't tell.  As the drugs worked their relentlessly calming magic, Starling lay back in the bed.  She wished she could see.  Just let her see the damn doctor once. That would tell her whether she was right or not.  

                Sedated, blindfolded, and restrained, Starling was unpleasantly aware of how dependent and vulnerable she was.  Her fingers itched for her Glock.  She hoped the doctor wasn't kidding about letting her out in ten minutes.  She tried to bend over and lower her head to her bound hands.  If only she could pull off the bandages for a minute…just one freakin' minute…_Please, God, just one damn minute and I'll know if I'm either a big horse's ass or in real damn trouble here.  _

She heard footsteps approaching her.  "Agent Starling," the nurse's voice said disapprovingly, "please don't do that." 

                Starling's head snapped up.  She did _not _want the nurse to tell the doctor what she had done.  

                "I just want to see," she said.  "Come on.  I haven't seen anything since this morning."  

                "Then lie down for me," the nurse said.  She heard the nurse rummage in a drawer.  Then she could see the faint red light of a penlight through her eye patches.  

                "Now, Agent Starling," the nurse said.  Her tone was that of a kindergarten teacher disciplining an unruly charge.  "I need to tell you that you can't behave like this.  Are you all right?  Is there something more that's bothering you?" 

                Starling could tell that the nurse already thought she was a nut case.  She knew that if she told the nurse she believed that her surgeon was actually her murderous cousin, who herself was the daughter of Hannibal Lecter, she would get a quick transfer to the psych ward.  Even if it was true.  

                _But would Susana be dumb enough to use her father's name? _She thought.  

                  But she could see it.  That might be exactly what Susana was counting on.  No one would believe her to be that stupid.  

                "I…ummm…well…," she said, and then it all came tumbling out in a confused mass.  

                "You see, my cousin is a serial killer and she's Hannibal Lecter's daughter and she's from Argentina, and _that's my doctor," Lisa babbled.  Normally, she would have held her tongue, but normally she was not as heavily drugged as she was.  Nor did she know that the injection she had received was only partially Jacarin.  Part of it was a small dose of sodium pentathol – a common drug for anesthesiology, but also used by psychiatrists in smaller doses as truth serum.  "Dr. Lektor is Susana Alvarez Lecter.  She's a killer."  _

                "I see," the nurse said.  

                "Please don't tell her," Lisa implored.  

                "All right.  It's OK.  Just try to get some sleep. Don't fight the drugs," the nurse advised.  

                She heard the nurse leave.  She tried to relax.  It was impossible: her heart raced and adrenalin poured into her veins.  She tried her restraints to see if she could escape them.  It was impossible.  

                Her ears pricked.  She could hear the nurse talking to someone else.  

                "Dr. Lektor, she's severely delusional," the nurse said.  "She thinks you're her killer cousin and Hannibal Lecter's daughter.  Seems like she might be schizophrenic." 

                "NO!" Starling screamed, and tried anew to free herself.  "You bitch, you said you wouldn't tell her!"  

                Dr. Lektor re-entered her room and sighed.  "Lisa, I don't know what's gotten into you.  I'm going to hope this is just due to the anesthesia. I'm afraid I can't take those restraints off you if you're like this. I want you to try and get some sleep now."  She spoke to the nurse and her tone changed from kind and understanding to dry and businesslike.  "Another 10 cc's of Jacarin, please."  Then she turned back to her captive.  

                "Lisa, if you're like this in the morning, I'm going to send you down to the psych ward," Dr. Lektor said.  

                "Oh god no," Lisa said.  A sojourn in the nut hatch would doom her career.  She'd never get to Quantico if they thought she was crazy.  

                "I have to go now," Dr. Lektor said.  "I have surgery to do.  But I want you to sleep.  I'll be back, Lisa.  _I'll be back in a few hours for you."  _

                She leaned in very close.  Her hand closed down on Lisa's upper arm with amazing strength.  Lisa Starling, blindfolded, drugged, and restrained, began to cry.  She couldn't help herself.  It was all she could do to keep her bladder from letting loose.  The needle dug into her upper arm.  

                "Well, I declare," Dr. Lektor hissed into Starling's ear.  Starling's spine tingled in terror.

                The needle dug anew into her arm, and Lisa Starling lay back on her bed.   She could feel herself being dragged back towards unconsciousness.  She fought it as best she could, but slowly, it was closing in.  She could feel it.  Her traitorous body was responding to the siren call of the medication.  But as the darkness closed in on her, Lisa Starling tried to the end.

                "Dr. Lektor?" she called out.  "Dr. Lektor?  Dr. Lektor…?  Dr. Lektor?…  Dr. Lektor?  _DR. LEKTOR?"_

                FIN

                


End file.
